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"Indeed, son," | Mother | demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I | that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that | must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in | with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know | go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said | and in a kind of ecstasy, retracing and imprinting the idea of so charming an object deeply in his mind, but at last, he resolved to quit his hiding-place and go home. He could not so far conceal his uneasiness but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour. After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your sovereign, who with one single word can crush you to pieces. How could so extraordinary a thought come into your head, as that I should go to the sultan and ask him to give his daughter in marriage to you? Suppose I had the impudence to present myself before the sultan, to whom should I address myself to be introduced to his majesty? Do you not think the first person I should speak to would take me for | of the principal merchants, where they sold cloth of gold and silver, linens, silk stuffs, and jewelry, and oftentimes joining in their conversation, acquired a knowledge of the world, and respectable demeanour. By his acquaintance among the jewellers, he came to know that the fruits which he had gathered when he took the lamp were, instead of coloured glass, stones of inestimable value; but he had the prudence not to mention this to any one, not even to his mother. One day as Aladdin was walking about the town, he heard an order proclaimed, commanding the people to shut up their shops and houses, and keep within doors, while the Princess Badroulboudour, the sultan's daughter, went to the baths and returned. This proclamation inspired Aladdin with eager curiosity to see the princess's face, which he could not do without admission into the house of some acquaintance, and then only through a window; but to gratify his curiosity, he presently thought of a scheme, which succeeded; it was to place himself behind the door of the bath, which was so situated that he could not fail of seeing her face. Aladdin had not waited long before the princess came, and he could see her plainly through a chink of the door without being discovered. She was attended by a great crowd of ladies, slaves, and eunuchs, who walked on each side, and behind her. When she came within three or four paces of the door of the baths, she took off her veil, and gave Aladdin an opportunity of a full view. As soon as Aladdin had seen the princess, his heart could not withstand those inclinations so charming an object always inspires. She was the most beautiful brunette in the world; her eyes were large, lively, and sparkling; her looks sweet and modest; her nose was of a just proportion and without a fault, her mouth small, her lips of a vermilion red; in a word, all the features of her face were perfectly regular. It is not therefore surprising that Aladdin, who had never before seen such a blaze of charms, was dazzled, and his senses ravished by such an assemblage. With all these perfections the princess had so majestic an air, that the sight of her was sufficient to inspire love and admiration. After the princess had passed by, and entered the baths, Aladdin remained some time astonished and in a kind of ecstasy, retracing and imprinting the idea of so charming an object deeply in his mind, but at last, he resolved to quit his hiding-place and go home. He could not so far conceal his uneasiness but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour. After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing that is reasonable but I would readily do for you. If I were to go and treat about your marriage with some neighbour's daughter, I would do it with all my heart; and even then they would expect you should have some little estate, or be of some trade. When such poor folks as we are wish to marry, the first thing they ought to think of, is how to live. But without reflecting on the meanness of your birth, and the little fortune you have to recommend you, you aim at the highest pitch of exaltation; and your pretensions are no less than to demand in marriage the daughter of your sovereign, who with one single word can crush you to pieces. How could so extraordinary a thought come into your head, as that I should go to the sultan and ask him to give his daughter in marriage to you? Suppose I had the impudence to present myself before the sultan, to whom should I address myself to be introduced to his majesty? Do you not think the first person I should speak to would take me for a mad woman, and chastise me as I should deserve? I know there is no difficulty to those who go to petition for justice, which the sultan distributes equally among his subjects; I know, too, that to those who ask a favour he grants it with pleasure when he sees it is deserved. But do you think you have merited the honour you would have me ask? What have you done to claim such a favour, either for your prince or country? How can I open my mouth to make the proposal to the sultan? His majestic presence and the lustre of his court would absolutely confound me. There is another reason, my son, which you do not think of, which is that nobody ever goes to ask a favour of the sultan without a present. But what presents have you to make? and what proportion could they bear to the favour you would ask? Therefore, reflect well, and consider that you aspire to an object which it is impossible for you to obtain." Aladdin heard very calmly all that his mother could say to dissuade him from his design, and after he had weighed her representations replied: "I own, mother, it is great rashness in me to presume to carry my pretensions so far; and a great want of consideration to ask you to go and make the proposal to the sultan, without first taking proper measures to procure a favourable reception, and I therefore beg your pardon. But be not surprised that I did not at first see every measure necessary to procure me the happiness I seek. I love the princess, and shall always persevere in my design of marrying her. I am obliged to you for the hint you have given me, and look upon it as the first step I ought to take to procure the happy issue I promise myself.You say it is not customary to go to the sultan without a present, and that I have nothing worthy of his acceptance. Do not you think, mother, that what I brought home with me the day on which I was delivered from death may be an acceptable present? I mean those things that you and I both took for coloured glass: but now I can tell you that they are jewels of inestimable value. I know the worth of them by frequenting the shops; | word, all the features of her face were perfectly regular. It is not therefore surprising that Aladdin, who had never before seen such a blaze of charms, was dazzled, and his senses ravished by such an assemblage. With all these perfections the princess had so majestic an air, that the sight of her was sufficient to inspire love and admiration. After the princess had passed by, and entered the baths, Aladdin remained some time astonished and in a kind of ecstasy, retracing and imprinting the idea of so charming an object deeply in his mind, but at last, he resolved to quit his hiding-place and go home. He could not so far conceal his uneasiness but that his mother perceived it, was surprised to see him so much more thoughtful than usual; and asked if he were ill? He returned her no answer, but sat carelessly down on the sofa, and remained silently musing on the image of the charming Badroulboudour. After supper, his mother asked him again why he was so melancholy, but could get no information, and he determined to go to bed rather than give her the least satisfaction. As he sat next day on the sofa, opposite his mother, however, as she was spinning cotton, he spoke to her in these words: "I perceive, mother, that my silence yesterday has much troubled you; I was not, nor am I ill; but I assure you, that what I felt then, and now endure, is worse than any disease.It was not proclaimed in this quarter of the town, and therefore you could know nothing of it, that the sultan's daughter was yesterday to go to the baths. I had a great curiosity to see her face; and as it occurred to me that when she came nigh the bath, she would pull her veil off, I resolved to conceal myself behind the door. She did so and I had the happiness of seeing her lovely face with the greatest security. This, mother, was the cause of my silence yesterday; I love the princess with more violence than I can express; and as my passion increases every moment, I am resolved to ask her in marriage of the sultan, her father." Aladdin's mother listened with interest to what her son told her; but when he talked of asking the princess in marriage, she could not help bursting out into a loud laugh. He would have gone on with his rhapsody, but she interrupted him: "Alas! child," said she, "what are you thinking of? you must be mad to talk thus." "I assure you, mother," replied Aladdin, "that I am not mad, but in my right senses; I foresaw that you would reproach me with folly and extravagance; but I must tell you once more, that I am resolved to demand the princess in marriage!"<|quote|>"Indeed, son,"</|quote|>replied the mother seriously, "I cannot help telling you that you have forgotten yourself, and I do not see who will venture to make the proposal for you." "You yourself," replied he immediately. "I go to the sultan!" answered the mother, amazed. "I shall be cautious how I engage in such an errand. Why, who are you, son," continued she, "that you can have the assurance to think of your sultan's daughter? Have you forgotten that your father was one of the poorest tailors in the capital, and that I am of no better extraction; and do not you know that sultans never marry their daughters but to sons of sovereigns like themselves?" "Mother," answered Aladdin, "I foresaw all that you have said, or can say: and tell you that neither your discourse nor your remonstrances shall make me change my mind. I have told you that you must ask the princess in marriage for me. I beg of you not to refuse, unless you would rather see me in my grave, than by your compliance give me new life." The good old woman was much embarrassed, when she found Aladdin persisting in so wild a design. "My son," said she again, "I am your mother, and there is nothing | Arabian Nights (4) |
"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?" | Harry Maylie | ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that | I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget | heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other | of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have." There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. "And your reasons, Rose," he said, | that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you." "There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours," said the young man, taking her hand. "Rose, my own dear Rose! For years for years I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have." There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. "And your reasons, Rose," he said, at length, in a low voice; "your reasons for this decision?" "You have a right to know them," rejoined Rose. "You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself." "To yourself?" "Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and | linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind." "I did not mean that," said Rose, weeping; "I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you." "There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours," said the young man, taking her hand. "Rose, my own dear Rose! For years for years I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have." There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. "And your reasons, Rose," he said, at length, in a low voice; "your reasons for this decision?" "You have a right to know them," rejoined Rose. "You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself." "To yourself?" "Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world." "If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty" Harry began. "They do not," replied Rose, colouring deeply. "Then you return my love?" said Harry. "Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!" "If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved," rejoined Rose, "I could have" "Have received this declaration very differently?" said Harry. "Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose." "I could," said Rose. "Stay!" she added, disengaging her hand, "why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the | increased; and it became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady, and of somebody else besides. At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with her for a few moments. "A few a very few will suffice, Rose," said the young man, drawing his chair towards her. "What I shall have to say, has already presented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated." Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed. "I I ought to have left here, before," said Harry. "You should, indeed," replied Rose. "Forgive me for saying so, but I wish you had." "I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all apprehensions," said the young man; "the fear of losing the one dear being on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying; trembling between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming." There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as though the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, with the loveliest things in nature. "A creature," continued the young man, passionately, "a creature as fair and innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and death. Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity of this! Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts upon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind." "I did not mean that," said Rose, weeping; "I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you." "There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours," said the young man, taking her hand. "Rose, my own dear Rose! For years for years I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have." There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. "And your reasons, Rose," he said, at length, in a low voice; "your reasons for this decision?" "You have a right to know them," rejoined Rose. "You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself." "To yourself?" "Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world." "If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty" Harry began. "They do not," replied Rose, colouring deeply. "Then you return my love?" said Harry. "Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!" "If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved," rejoined Rose, "I could have" "Have received this declaration very differently?" said Harry. "Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose." "I could," said Rose. "Stay!" she added, disengaging her hand, "why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!" "Another word, Rose," said Harry. "Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!" "The prospect before you," answered Rose, firmly, "is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. In a word," said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, "there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me." "One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!" cried Harry, throwing himself before her. "If I had been less less fortunate, the world would call it if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny if I had been poor, sick, helpless would you have turned from me then? Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?" "Do not press me to reply," answered Rose. "The question does not arise, and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it." "If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is," retorted Harry, "it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!" "Then, if your lot had been differently cast," rejoined Rose; "if you had been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I should have been spared this trial. I have | amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved you these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death, to life, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all mankind." "I did not mean that," said Rose, weeping; "I only wish you had left here, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits well worthy of you." "There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highest nature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours," said the young man, taking her hand. "Rose, my own dear Rose! For years for years I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that had been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, with not fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the offer." "Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble." said Rose, mastering the emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."<|quote|>"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?"</|quote|>"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have." There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other. "And your reasons, Rose," he said, at length, in a low voice; "your reasons for this decision?" "You have a right to know them," rejoined Rose. "You can say nothing to alter my resolution. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to others, and to myself." "To yourself?" "Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless, girl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world." "If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty" Harry began. "They do not," replied Rose, colouring deeply. "Then you return my love?" said Harry. "Say but that, dear Rose; say but that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!" "If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved," rejoined Rose, "I could have" "Have received this declaration very differently?" said Harry. "Do not conceal that from me, at least, Rose." "I could," said Rose. "Stay!" she added, disengaging her hand, "why should we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be happiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met to-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which this conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!" "Another word, Rose," said Harry. "Your reason in your own words. From your own lips, let me hear it!" "The prospect before you," answered Rose, firmly, "is a brilliant one. All the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who has so well supplied that mother's place. In a word," said the young lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, "there is a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads. | Oliver Twist |
And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. | No speaker | Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is | below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire | his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people | you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" | be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go | out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. | a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation. "About that dreadful afternoon in February." Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by" 'some other source.' "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you both again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not" 'therefore I kissed you,' "because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had more self-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightened you, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--therefore I settled to fight him." Lucy thought of a very good remark. "You say Mr. Vyse wants me to listen to him, Mr. Emerson. Pardon me for suggesting that you have caught the habit." And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality. He said: "Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same kind | "You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?"<|quote|>And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.</|quote|>"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course." "Lucy, do you mind doing it?" "How can you ask such a ridiculous question?" "Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's caress, she led the way downstairs. "Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good." George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said: "No--nothing to eat." "You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?" "She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room." "That's all right. You go away." He went off singing. Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read. She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. "I hate a row. Go please." "What--" "No discussion." "But I can't--" She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse." "You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--" "you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?" The line was unexpected. She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You are merely ridiculous," she said quietly. Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a woman." It was a new light on Cecil's character. "Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?" "I can scarcely discuss--" "No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That | A Room With A View |
she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh. | No speaker | a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if | Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I | poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy | dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry | and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called | all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her. "My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly | Mrs. Hilbery?" Denham asked, of the parlor-maid in Chelsea, a week later. "No, sir. But Miss Hilbery is at home," the girl answered. Ralph had anticipated many answers, but not this one, and now it was unexpectedly made plain to him that it was the chance of seeing Katharine that had brought him all the way to Chelsea on pretence of seeing her father. He made some show of considering the matter, and was taken upstairs to the drawing-room. As upon that first occasion, some weeks ago, the door closed as if it were a thousand doors softly excluding the world; and once more Ralph received an impression of a room full of deep shadows, firelight, unwavering silver candle flames, and empty spaces to be crossed before reaching the round table in the middle of the room, with its frail burden of silver trays and china teacups. But this time Katharine was there by herself; the volume in her hand showed that she expected no visitors. Ralph said something about hoping to find her father. "My father is out," she replied. "But if you can wait, I expect him soon." It might have been due merely to politeness, but Ralph felt that she received him almost with cordiality. Perhaps she was bored by drinking tea and reading a book all alone; at any rate, she tossed the book on to a sofa with a gesture of relief. "Is that one of the moderns whom you despise?" he asked, smiling at the carelessness of her gesture. "Yes," she replied. "I think even you would despise him." "Even I?" he repeated. "Why even I?" "You said you liked modern things; I said I hated them." This was not a very accurate report of their conversation among the relics, perhaps, but Ralph was flattered to think that she remembered anything about it. "Or did I confess that I hated all books?" she went on, seeing him look up with an air of inquiry. "I forget" "Do you hate all books?" he asked. "It would be absurd to say that I hate all books when I ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her. "My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph thought, than the situation required. She addressed the larger lady as Aunt Millicent; the smaller was Aunt Celia, Mrs. Milvain, who had lately undertaken the task of marrying Cyril to his wife. Both ladies, but Mrs. Cosham (Aunt Millicent) in particular, had that look of heightened, smoothed, incarnadined existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about five o clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, seen through glass, have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Cosham was so appareled with hanging muffs, chains, and swinging draperies that it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the mass of brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a much slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of her contour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding. What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantastic characters? for there was something fantastically unreal in the curious swayings and noddings of Mrs. Cosham, as if her equipment included a large wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, which prolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemed no longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph thought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs. Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in view) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and elaborately. "I come from Woking, Mr. Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? and to that I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of the sunsets. We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twenty years ago. Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now nearer than the South Coast." Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a wave of a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled an elephant, with a jeweled head-dress, or a superb cockatoo, balanced insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar. "Where are the sunsets now?" she repeated. "Do you find sunsets now, Mr. Popham?" "I live at Highgate," he replied. "At Highgate? Yes, Highgate has its charms; your Uncle John lived at Highgate," she jerked in the direction of Katharine. She sank her head upon her breast, as if for a moment s meditation, which past, she looked up and observed: "I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate. I can recollect walking with your mother, Katharine, through lanes blossoming with wild | ve only read ten, perhaps; but Here she pulled herself up short." "Well?" "Yes, I do hate books," she continued. "Why do you want to be for ever talking about your feelings? That s what I can t make out. And poetry s all about feelings novels are all about feelings." She cut a cake vigorously into slices, and providing a tray with bread and butter for Mrs. Hilbery, who was in her room with a cold, she rose to go upstairs. Ralph held the door open for her, and then stood with clasped hands in the middle of the room. His eyes were bright, and, indeed, he scarcely knew whether they beheld dreams or realities. All down the street and on the doorstep, and while he mounted the stairs, his dream of Katharine possessed him; on the threshold of the room he had dismissed it, in order to prevent too painful a collision between what he dreamt of her and what she was. And in five minutes she had filled the shell of the old dream with the flesh of life; looked with fire out of phantom eyes. He glanced about him with bewilderment at finding himself among her chairs and tables; they were solid, for he grasped the back of the chair in which Katharine had sat; and yet they were unreal; the atmosphere was that of a dream. He summoned all the faculties of his spirit to seize what the minutes had to give him; and from the depths of his mind there rose unchecked a joyful recognition of the truth that human nature surpasses, in its beauty, all that our wildest dreams bring us hints of. Katharine came into the room a moment later. He stood watching her come towards him, and thought her more beautiful and strange than his dream of her; for the real Katharine could speak the words which seemed to crowd behind the forehead and in the depths of the eyes, and the commonest sentence would be flashed on by this immortal light. And she overflowed the edges of the dream; he remarked that her softness was like that of some vast snowy owl; she wore a ruby on her finger. "My mother wants me to tell you," she said, "that she hopes you have begun your poem. She says every one ought to write poetry.... All my relations write poetry," she went on. "I can t bear to think of it sometimes because, of course, it s none of it any good. But then one needn t read it" "You don t encourage me to write a poem," said Ralph. "But you re not a poet, too, are you?"<|quote|>she inquired, turning upon him with a laugh.</|quote|>"Should I tell you if I were?" "Yes. Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost impersonally direct. It would be easy, Ralph thought, to worship one so far removed, and yet of so straight a nature; easy to submit recklessly to her, without thought of future pain. "Are you a poet?" she demanded. He felt that her question had an unexplained weight of meaning behind it, as if she sought an answer to a question that she did not ask. "No. I haven t written any poetry for years," he replied. "But all the same, I don t agree with you. I think it s the only thing worth doing." "Why do you say that?" she asked, almost with impatience, tapping her spoon two or three times against the side of her cup. "Why?" Ralph laid hands on the first words that came to mind. "Because, I suppose, it keeps an ideal alive which might die otherwise." A curious change came over her face, as if the flame of her mind were subdued; and she looked at him ironically and with the expression which he had called sad before, for want of a better name for it. "I don t know that there s much sense in having ideals," she said. "But you have them," he replied energetically. "Why do we call them ideals? It s a stupid word. Dreams, I mean" She followed his words with parted lips, as though to answer eagerly when he had done; but as he said, "Dreams, I mean," the door of the drawing-room swung open, and so remained for a perceptible instant. They both held themselves silent, her lips still parted. Far off, they heard the rustle of skirts. Then the owner of the skirts appeared in the doorway, which she almost filled, nearly concealing the figure of a very much smaller lady who accompanied her. "My aunts!" Katharine murmured, under her breath. Her tone had a hint of tragedy in it, but no less, Ralph | Night And Day |
"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!" | Josiah Bounderby | age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," | unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a | if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is | opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," | saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to | even that merit. We are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together." Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the family dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a round of visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a considerable accession of boredom. In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's] CHAPTER III THE WHELP IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but such a monster, | so much of the world, and thought, "Now, how am I to take this?" "You are going to devote yourself, as I gather from what Mr. Bounderby has said, to the service of your country. You have made up your mind," said Louisa, still standing before him where she had first stopped in all the singular contrariety of her self-possession, and her being obviously very ill at ease "to show the nation the way out of all its difficulties." "Mrs. Bounderby," he returned, laughing, "upon my honour, no. I will make no such pretence to you. I have seen a little, here and there, up and down; I have found it all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and as some confess they have, and some do not; and I am going in for your respected father's opinions really because I have no choice of opinions, and may as well back them as anything else." "Have you none of your own?" asked Louisa. "I have not so much as the slightest predilection left. I assure you I attach not the least importance to any opinions. The result of the varieties of boredom I have undergone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too industrious a word for the lazy sentiment I entertain on the subject), that any set of ideas will do just as much good as any other set, and just as much harm as any other set. There's an English family with a charming Italian motto. What will be, will be. It's the only truth going!" This vicious assumption of honesty in dishonesty a vice so dangerous, so deadly, and so common seemed, he observed, a little to impress her in his favour. He followed up the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest manner: a manner to which she might attach as much or as little meaning as she pleased: "The side that can prove anything in a line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs. Bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun, and to give a man the best chance. I am quite as much attached to it as if I believed it. I am quite ready to go in for it, to the same extent as if I believed it. And what more could I possibly do, if I did believe it!" "You are a singular politician," said Louisa. "Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are the largest party in the state, I assure you, Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together." Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting in silence, interposed here with a project for postponing the family dinner till half-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthouse in the meantime on a round of visits to the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet use of his blue coaching, came off triumphantly, though with a considerable accession of boredom. In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for four, but they sat down only three. It was an appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to discuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's] CHAPTER III THE WHELP IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in the form of grovelling sensualities; but such a monster, beyond all doubt, was Tom. "Do you smoke?" asked Mr. James Harthouse, when they came to the hotel. "I believe you!" said Tom. He could do no less than ask Tom up; and Tom could do no less than go up. What with a cooling drink adapted to the weather, but not so weak as cool; and what with a rarer tobacco than was to be bought in those parts; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy state at his end of the sofa, and more than ever disposed to admire his new friend at the other end. Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking a little while, and took an observation of his friend. "He don't seem to care about his dress," thought Tom, "and yet how capitally he does it. What an easy swell he is!" Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom's eye, remarked that he drank nothing, and filled his glass with his own negligent hand. "Thank'ee," said Tom. "Thank'ee. Well, Mr. Harthouse, I hope you have had about a dose of old Bounderby to-night." Tom said this with one eye shut up again, and looking over his glass knowingly, at his entertainer. "A very good fellow indeed!" returned Mr. James Harthouse. "You think so, don't you?" said Tom. And shut up his eye again. Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising from his end of the sofa, and lounging with his back against the chimney-piece, so that he stood before the empty fire-grate as he smoked, in front of Tom and looking down at him, observed: "What a comical brother-in-law you are!" "What a comical brother-in-law old Bounderby is, I think you mean," said Tom. "You are a piece of caustic, Tom," retorted Mr. James Harthouse. There was something so very agreeable in being so intimate with such a waistcoat; in being called Tom, in such an intimate way, by such a voice; in being on such off-hand terms so soon, with such a pair of whiskers; that Tom was uncommonly pleased with himself. "Oh! I don't care for old Bounderby," said he, "if you mean that. I have always called old Bounderby by the same name when I have talked about him, and I have always thought of him in the same way. I am not going to begin to be polite now, about old Bounderby. It would be rather | at eight years old; and also of the inferior water, specially used for laying the dust, with which he had washed down that repast. He likewise entertained his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least three horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These recitals, Jem, in a languid manner, received with "charming!" every now and then; and they probably would have decided him to "go in" for Jerusalem again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious respecting Louisa. "Is there nothing," he thought, glancing at her as she sat at the head of the table, where her youthful figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as pretty as it looked misplaced; "is there nothing that will move that face?" Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, and here it was, in an unexpected shape. Tom appeared. She changed as the door opened, and broke into a beaming smile. A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might not have thought so much of it, but that he had wondered so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon her brother's, as if she would have carried them to her lips. "Ay, ay?" thought the visitor. "This whelp is the only creature she cares for. So, so!" The whelp was presented, and took his chair. The appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited. "When I was your age, young Tom," said Bounderby,<|quote|>"I was punctual, or I got no dinner!"</|quote|>"When you were my age," resumed Tom, "you hadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn't to dress afterwards." "Never mind that now," said Bounderby. "Well, then," grumbled Tom. "Don't begin with me." "Mrs. Bounderby," said Harthouse, perfectly hearing this under-strain as it went on; "your brother's face is quite familiar to me. Can I have seen him abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps?" "No," she resumed, quite interested, "he has never been abroad yet, and was educated here, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr. Harthouse that he never saw you abroad." "No such luck, sir," said Tom. There was little enough in him to brighten her face, for he was a sullen young fellow, and ungracious in his manner even to her. So much the greater must have been the solitude of her heart, and her need of some one on whom to bestow it. "So much the more is this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for," thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and over. "So much the more. So much the more." Both in his sister's presence, and after she had left the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it without the observation of that independent man, by making wry faces, or shutting one eye. Without responding to these telegraphic communications, Mr. Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and turned out with him to escort him thither. [Picture: Mr. Harthouse dines at the Bounderby's] CHAPTER III THE WHELP IT was very remarkable that a young gentleman who had been brought up under one continuous system of unnatural restraint, should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that a young gentleman who had never been left to his own guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be incapable at last of governing himself; but so it was with Tom. It was altogether unaccountable that a young gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his cradle, | Hard Times |
"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous," | Katharine Hilbery | us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham | Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge | to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing | as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove | the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I | am," Katharine answered, and she added, "Do you think there s anything wrong in that?" "Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your things to visitors," he added reflectively. "Not if the visitors like them." "Isn t it difficult to live up to your ancestors?" he proceeded. "I dare say I shouldn t try to write poetry," Katharine replied. "No. And that s what I should hate. I couldn t bear my grandfather to cut me out. And, after all," Denham went on, glancing round him satirically, as Katharine thought, "it s not your grandfather only. You re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the Mannings and you re related to the Otways, aren t you? I read it all in some magazine," he added. "The Otways are my cousins," Katharine replied. "Well," said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were proved. "Well," said Katharine, "I don t see that you ve proved anything." Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he | have not been reprinted, as well as corrections." She paused for a minute, and then went on, as if these spaces had all been calculated. "That lady in blue is my great-grandmother, by Millington. Here is my uncle s walking-stick he was Sir Richard Warburton, you know, and rode with Havelock to the Relief of Lucknow. And then, let me see oh, that s the original Alardyce, 1697, the founder of the family fortunes, with his wife. Some one gave us this bowl the other day because it has their crest and initials. We think it must have been given them to celebrate their silver wedding-day." Here she stopped for a moment, wondering why it was that Mr. Denham said nothing. Her feeling that he was antagonistic to her, which had lapsed while she thought of her family possessions, returned so keenly that she stopped in the middle of her catalog and looked at him. Her mother, wishing to connect him reputably with the great dead, had compared him with Mr. Ruskin; and the comparison was in Katharine s mind, and led her to be more critical of the young man than was fair, for a young man paying a call in a tail-coat is in a different element altogether from a head seized at its climax of expressiveness, gazing immutably from behind a sheet of glass, which was all that remained to her of Mr. Ruskin. He had a singular face a face built for swiftness and decision rather than for massive contemplation; the forehead broad, the nose long and formidable, the lips clean-shaven and at once dogged and sensitive, the cheeks lean, with a deeply running tide of red blood in them. His eyes, expressive now of the usual masculine impersonality and authority, might reveal more subtle emotions under favorable circumstances, for they were large, and of a clear, brown color; they seemed unexpectedly to hesitate and speculate; but Katharine only looked at him to wonder whether his face would not have come nearer the standard of her dead heroes if it had been adorned with side-whiskers. In his spare build and thin, though healthy, cheeks, she saw tokens of an angular and acrid soul. His voice, she noticed, had a slight vibrating or creaking sound in it, as he laid down the manuscript and said: "You must be very proud of your family, Miss Hilbery." "Yes, I am," Katharine answered, and she added, "Do you think there s anything wrong in that?" "Wrong? How should it be wrong? It must be a bore, though, showing your things to visitors," he added reflectively. "Not if the visitors like them." "Isn t it difficult to live up to your ancestors?" he proceeded. "I dare say I shouldn t try to write poetry," Katharine replied. "No. And that s what I should hate. I couldn t bear my grandfather to cut me out. And, after all," Denham went on, glancing round him satirically, as Katharine thought, "it s not your grandfather only. You re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the Mannings and you re related to the Otways, aren t you? I read it all in some magazine," he added. "The Otways are my cousins," Katharine replied. "Well," said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were proved. "Well," said Katharine, "I don t see that you ve proved anything." Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things after saving up for them, or reading books for the first time, or making discoveries." "Go on," Katharine observed, as he paused, suddenly doubtful, when he heard his voice proclaiming aloud these facts, whether there was any truth in them. "Of course, I don t know how you spend your time," he continued, a little stiffly, "but I suppose you have to show people round. You are writing a life of your grandfather, aren t you? And this kind of thing" he nodded towards the other room, where they could hear bursts of cultivated laughter "must take up a lot of time." She looked at him expectantly, as if between them they were decorating a small figure of herself, and she saw him hesitating in the disposition of some bow or sash. "You ve got it very nearly right," she said, "but I only help my mother. I don t write myself." "Do you do anything yourself?" he demanded. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don t leave the house at ten and come back at six." "I don t mean that." Mr. Denham had recovered his self-control; he spoke with a quietness which made Katharine rather anxious that he should explain himself, but at the same time she wished to annoy him, to waft him away from her on some light current of ridicule or satire, as she was wont to do with these intermittent young men of her father s. "Nobody ever does do anything worth doing nowadays," she remarked. "You see" she tapped the volume of her grandfather s poems "we don t even print as well as they did, and as for poets or painters or novelists there are none; so, at any rate, I m not singular." "No, we haven t any great men," Denham replied. "I m very glad that we haven t. I hate great men. The worship of greatness in the nineteenth century seems to me to explain the worthlessness of that generation." Katharine opened her lips and drew in her breath, as if to reply with equal vigor, when the shutting of a door in the next room withdrew her attention, and they both became conscious that the voices, which had been rising and falling round the tea-table, had fallen silent; the light, even, seemed to have sunk lower. A moment later Mrs. Hilbery appeared in the doorway of the ante-room. She stood looking at them with a smile of expectancy on her face, as if a scene from the drama of the younger generation were being played for her benefit. She was a remarkable-looking woman, well advanced in the sixties, but owing to the lightness of her frame and the brightness of her eyes she seemed to have been wafted over the surface of the years without taking much harm in the passage. Her face was shrunken and aquiline, but any | s what I should hate. I couldn t bear my grandfather to cut me out. And, after all," Denham went on, glancing round him satirically, as Katharine thought, "it s not your grandfather only. You re cut out all the way round. I suppose you come of one of the most distinguished families in England. There are the Warburtons and the Mannings and you re related to the Otways, aren t you? I read it all in some magazine," he added. "The Otways are my cousins," Katharine replied. "Well," said Denham, in a final tone of voice, as if his argument were proved. "Well," said Katharine, "I don t see that you ve proved anything." Denham smiled, in a peculiarly provoking way. He was amused and gratified to find that he had the power to annoy his oblivious, supercilious hostess, if he could not impress her; though he would have preferred to impress her. He sat silent, holding the precious little book of poems unopened in his hands, and Katharine watched him, the melancholy or contemplative expression deepening in her eyes as her annoyance faded. She appeared to be considering many things. She had forgotten her duties. "Well," said Denham again, suddenly opening the little book of poems, as though he had said all that he meant to say or could, with propriety, say. He turned over the pages with great decision, as if he were judging the book in its entirety, the printing and paper and binding, as well as the poetry, and then, having satisfied himself of its good or bad quality, he placed it on the writing-table, and examined the malacca cane with the gold knob which had belonged to the soldier. "But aren t you proud of your family?" Katharine demanded. "No," said Denham. "We ve never done anything to be proud of unless you count paying one s bills a matter for pride." "That sounds rather dull," Katharine remarked. "You would think us horribly dull," Denham agreed.<|quote|>"Yes, I might find you dull, but I don t think I should find you ridiculous,"</|quote|>Katharine added, as if Denham had actually brought that charge against her family. "No because we re not in the least ridiculous. We re a respectable middle-class family, living at Highgate." "We don t live at Highgate, but we re middle class too, I suppose." Denham merely smiled, and replacing the malacca cane on the rack, he drew a sword from its ornamental sheath. "That belonged to Clive, so we say," said Katharine, taking up her duties as hostess again automatically. "Is it a lie?" Denham inquired. "It s a family tradition. I don t know that we can prove it." "You see, we don t have traditions in our family," said Denham. "You sound very dull," Katharine remarked, for the second time. "Merely middle class," Denham replied. "You pay your bills, and you speak the truth. I don t see why you should despise us." Mr. Denham carefully sheathed the sword which the Hilberys said belonged to Clive. "I shouldn t like to be you; that s all I said," he replied, as if he were saying what he thought as accurately as he could. "No, but one never would like to be any one else." "I should. I should like to be lots of other people." "Then why not us?" Katharine asked. Denham looked at her as she sat in her grandfather s arm-chair, drawing her great-uncle s malacca cane smoothly through her fingers, while her background was made up equally of lustrous blue-and-white paint, and crimson books with gilt lines on them. The vitality and composure of her attitude, as of a bright-plumed bird poised easily before further flights, roused him to show her the limitations of her lot. So soon, so easily, would he be forgotten. "You ll never know anything at first hand," he began, almost savagely. "It s all been done for you. You ll never know the pleasure of buying things | Night And Day |
"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?" | Mr. Sherlock Holmes | black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a | She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. | me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat | I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get | "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the | what puzzles me; for I know there ain t more coals in her than would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he d been away in the barge I d ha thought nothin ; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin there he might ha stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?" "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river." "He might, sir, but it weren t his way. Many a time I ve heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don t like that wooden-legged man, wi his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin about here for?" "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise. "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that s called more n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet." We pulled up at the Great | there stood whining, looking out on the dark current beyond. "We are out of luck," said Holmes. "They have taken to a boat here." Several small punts and skiffs were lying about in the water and on the edge of the wharf. We took Toby round to each in turn, but, though he sniffed earnestly, he made no sign. Close to the rude landing-stage was a small brick house, with a wooden placard slung out through the second window. "Mordecai Smith" was printed across it in large letters, and, underneath, "Boats to hire by the hour or day." A second inscription above the door informed us that a steam launch was kept, a statement which was confirmed by a great pile of coke upon the jetty. Sherlock Holmes looked slowly round, and his face assumed an ominous expression. "This looks bad," said he. "These fellows are sharper than I expected. They seem to have covered their tracks. There has, I fear, been preconcerted management here." He was approaching the door of the house, when it opened, and a little, curly-headed lad of six came running out, followed by a stoutish, red-faced woman with a large sponge in her hand. "You come back and be washed, Jack," she shouted. "Come back, you young imp; for if your father comes home and finds you like that, he ll let us hear of it." "Dear little chap!" said Holmes, strategically. "What a rosy-cheeked young rascal! Now, Jack, is there anything you would like?" The youth pondered for a moment. "I d like a shillin ," said he. "Nothing you would like better?" "I d like two shillin better," the prodigy answered, after some thought. "Here you are, then! Catch! A fine child, Mrs. Smith!" "Lor bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a most too much for me to manage, specially when my man is away days at a time." "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith." "He s been away since yesterday mornin , sir, and, truth to tell, I am beginnin to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well." "I wanted to hire his steam launch." "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone. That s what puzzles me; for I know there ain t more coals in her than would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he d been away in the barge I d ha thought nothin ; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin there he might ha stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?" "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river." "He might, sir, but it weren t his way. Many a time I ve heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don t like that wooden-legged man, wi his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin about here for?" "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise. "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that s called more n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know that the chase was hot at their heels, and they would be off out of the country. As it is, they are likely enough to leave, but as long as they think they are perfectly safe they will be in no hurry. Jones s energy will be of use to us there, for his view of the case is sure to push itself into the daily press, and the runaways will think that every one is off on the wrong scent." "What are we to do, then?" I asked, as we landed near Millbank Penitentiary. "Take this hansom, drive home, have some breakfast, and get an hour s sleep. It is quite on the cards that we may be afoot to-night again. Stop at a telegraph-office, cabby! We will keep Toby, for he may be of use to us yet." We pulled up at the Great Peter Street post-office, and Holmes despatched his wire. "Whom do you think that is to?" he asked, as we resumed our journey. "I am sure I don t know." "You remember the Baker Street division of the detective police force whom I employed in the Jefferson Hope case?" "Well," said I, laughing. "This is just the case where they might be invaluable. If they fail, I have other resources; but I shall try them first. That wire was to my dirty little lieutenant, Wiggins, and I expect that he and his gang will be with us before we have finished our breakfast." It was between eight and nine o clock now, and I was conscious of a strong reaction after the successive excitements of the night. I was limp and weary, befogged in mind and fatigued in body. I had not the professional enthusiasm which carried my companion on, nor could I look at the matter as a mere abstract intellectual problem. As far as the death of Bartholomew Sholto went, I had heard little good of him, and could feel no intense antipathy to his murderers. The treasure, however, was a different matter. That, or part of it, belonged rightfully to Miss Morstan. While there was a chance of recovering it I was ready to devote my life to the one object. True, if I found it it would probably put her forever beyond my reach. Yet it would be a petty and selfish love which would be influenced by such a thought as that. If Holmes could work to find the criminals, I had a tenfold stronger reason to urge me on to find the treasure. A bath at Baker Street and a complete change freshened me up wonderfully. When I came down to our room I found the breakfast laid and Homes pouring out the coffee. "Here it is," said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper. "The energetic Jones and the ubiquitous reporter have fixed it up between them. But you have had enough of the case. Better have your ham and eggs first." I took the paper from him and read the short notice, which was headed "Mysterious Business at Upper Norwood." "About twelve o clock last night," said the _Standard_, "Mr. Bartholomew Sholto, of Pondicherry Lodge, Upper Norwood, was found dead in his room under circumstances which point to foul play. As far | prodigy answered, after some thought. "Here you are, then! Catch! A fine child, Mrs. Smith!" "Lor bless you, sir, he is that, and forward. He gets a most too much for me to manage, specially when my man is away days at a time." "Away, is he?" said Holmes, in a disappointed voice. "I am sorry for that, for I wanted to speak to Mr. Smith." "He s been away since yesterday mornin , sir, and, truth to tell, I am beginnin to feel frightened about him. But if it was about a boat, sir, maybe I could serve as well." "I wanted to hire his steam launch." "Why, bless you, sir, it is in the steam launch that he has gone. That s what puzzles me; for I know there ain t more coals in her than would take her to about Woolwich and back. If he d been away in the barge I d ha thought nothin ; for many a time a job has taken him as far as Gravesend, and then if there was much doin there he might ha stayed over. But what good is a steam launch without coals?" "He might have bought some at a wharf down the river." "He might, sir, but it weren t his way. Many a time I ve heard him call out at the prices they charge for a few odd bags. Besides, I don t like that wooden-legged man, wi his ugly face and outlandish talk. What did he want always knockin about here for?" "A wooden-legged man?" said Holmes, with bland surprise. "Yes, sir, a brown, monkey-faced chap that s called more n once for my old man. It was him that roused him up yesternight, and, what s more, my man knew he was comin , for he had steam up in the launch. I tell you straight, sir, I don t feel easy in my mind about it." "But, my dear Mrs. Smith," said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders, "You are frightening yourself about nothing. How could you possibly tell that it was the wooden-legged man who came in the night? I don t quite understand how you can be so sure." "His voice, sir. I knew his voice, which is kind o thick and foggy. He tapped at the winder, about three it would be." Show a leg, matey, "says he:" time to turn out guard. "My old man woke up Jim, that s my eldest, and away they went, without so much as a word to me. I could hear the wooden leg clackin on the stones." "And was this wooden-legged man alone?" "Couldn t say, I am sure, sir. I didn t hear no one else." "I am sorry, Mrs. Smith, for I wanted a steam launch, and I have heard good reports of the Let me see, what is her name?" "The _Aurora_, sir." "Ah! She s not that old green launch with a yellow line, very broad in the beam?" "No, indeed. She s as trim a little thing as any on the river. She s been fresh painted, black with two red streaks."<|quote|>"Thanks. I hope that you will hear soon from Mr. Smith. I am going down the river; and if I should see anything of the _Aurora_ I shall let him know that you are uneasy. A black funnel, you say?"</|quote|>"No, sir. Black with a white band." "Ah, of course. It was the sides which were black. Good-morning, Mrs. Smith. There is a boatman here with a wherry, Watson. We shall take it and cross the river." "The main thing with people of that sort," said Holmes, as we sat in the sheets of the wherry, "is never to let them think that their information can be of the slightest importance to you. If you do, they will instantly shut up like an oyster. If you listen to them under protest, as it were, you are very likely to get what you want." "Our course now seems pretty clear," said I. "What would you do, then?" "I would engage a launch and go down the river on the track of the _Aurora_." "My dear fellow, it would be a colossal task. She may have touched at any wharf on either side of the stream between here and Greenwich. Below the bridge there is a perfect labyrinth of landing-places for miles. It would take you days and days to exhaust them, if you set about it alone." "Employ the police, then." "No. I shall probably call Athelney Jones in at the last moment. He is not a bad fellow, and I should not like to do anything which would injure him professionally. But I have a fancy for working it out myself, now that we have gone so far." "Could we advertise, then, asking for information from wharfingers?" "Worse and worse! Our men would know | The Sign Of The Four |
"A widder, I think?" | Stephen Blackpool | announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long | thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one | the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she | standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not now." "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. "I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I I blame myseln." While he excused | it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his head. He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course in fulfilment of the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not now." "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. "I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I I blame myseln." While he excused himself, the old lady's cup rattled more and more. "I had a son," she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; "and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you please. He is" Putting down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would have added, by her action, "dead!" Then she said aloud, "I have lost him." Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him to | heavier. She answered with her comforting smile, and the three walked on together. Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration among the poor. The old woman was so decent and contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though they had increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that they both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their walking at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to their part of the town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever. "Come to my poor place, missus," said Stephen, "and tak a coop o' tea. Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I'll see thee safe t' thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th' chance o' thy coompany agen." They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged. When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his window with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it was open, as he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his head. He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course in fulfilment of the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not now." "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. "I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I I blame myseln." While he excused himself, the old lady's cup rattled more and more. "I had a son," she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; "and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you please. He is" Putting down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would have added, by her action, "dead!" Then she said aloud, "I have lost him." Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for she caught a word as it was uttered. "Bounderby!" she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table. "Oh hide me! Don't let me be seen for the world. Don't let him come up till I've got away. Pray, pray!" She trembled, and was excessively agitated; getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; and not seeming to know what she was about. "But hearken, missus, hearken," said Stephen, astonished. "'Tisn't Mr. Bounderby; 'tis his wife. Yo'r not fearfo' o' her. Yo was hey-go-mad about her, but an hour sin." "But are you sure it's the lady, and not the gentleman?" she asked, still trembling. "Certain sure!" "Well then, pray don't speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me," said the old woman. "Let me be quite to myself in this corner." Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for an explanation, which she was quite unable to give him; took the candle, went downstairs, and in a few moments returned, lighting Louisa into the room. She was followed by the whelp. Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and bonnet | he pursued the subject that interested her in her old age. "Well, missus," said he, "I ha seen the lady, and she were young and hansom. Wi' fine dark thinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I ha never seen the like on." "Young and handsome. Yes!" cried the old woman, quite delighted. "As bonny as a rose! And what a happy wife!" "Aye, missus, I suppose she be," said Stephen. But with a doubtful glance at Rachael. "Suppose she be? She must be. She's your master's wife," returned the old woman. Stephen nodded assent. "Though as to master," said he, glancing again at Rachael, "not master onny more. That's aw enden 'twixt him and me." "Have you left his work, Stephen?" asked Rachael, anxiously and quickly. "Why, Rachael," he replied, "whether I ha lef'n his work, or whether his work ha lef'n me, cooms t' th' same. His work and me are parted. 'Tis as weel so better, I were thinkin when yo coom up wi' me. It would ha brought'n trouble upon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply 'tis a kindness to monny that I go; haply 'tis a kindness to myseln; anyways it mun be done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th' time, and seek a fort'n, dear, by beginnin fresh." "Where will you go, Stephen?" "I donno t'night," said he, lifting off his hat, and smoothing his thin hair with the flat of his hand. "But I'm not goin t'night, Rachael, nor yet t'morrow. 'Tan't easy overmuch t' know wheer t' turn, but a good heart will coom to me." Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly aided him. Before he had so much as closed Mr. Bounderby's door, he had reflected that at least his being obliged to go away was good for her, as it would save her from the chance of being brought into question for not withdrawing from him. Though it would cost him a hard pang to leave her, and though he could think of no similar place in which his condemnation would not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away from the endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties and distresses. So he said, with truth, "I'm more leetsome, Rachael, under 't, than I could'n ha believed." It was not her part to make his burden heavier. She answered with her comforting smile, and the three walked on together. Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration among the poor. The old woman was so decent and contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though they had increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that they both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their walking at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to their part of the town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever. "Come to my poor place, missus," said Stephen, "and tak a coop o' tea. Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I'll see thee safe t' thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th' chance o' thy coompany agen." They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged. When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his window with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it was open, as he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his head. He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course in fulfilment of the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not now." "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. "I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I I blame myseln." While he excused himself, the old lady's cup rattled more and more. "I had a son," she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; "and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you please. He is" Putting down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would have added, by her action, "dead!" Then she said aloud, "I have lost him." Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for she caught a word as it was uttered. "Bounderby!" she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table. "Oh hide me! Don't let me be seen for the world. Don't let him come up till I've got away. Pray, pray!" She trembled, and was excessively agitated; getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; and not seeming to know what she was about. "But hearken, missus, hearken," said Stephen, astonished. "'Tisn't Mr. Bounderby; 'tis his wife. Yo'r not fearfo' o' her. Yo was hey-go-mad about her, but an hour sin." "But are you sure it's the lady, and not the gentleman?" she asked, still trembling. "Certain sure!" "Well then, pray don't speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me," said the old woman. "Let me be quite to myself in this corner." Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for an explanation, which she was quite unable to give him; took the candle, went downstairs, and in a few moments returned, lighting Louisa into the room. She was followed by the whelp. Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and bonnet in her hand, when Stephen, himself profoundly astonished by this visit, put the candle on the table. Then he too stood, with his doubled hand upon the table near it, waiting to be addressed. For the first time in her life Louisa had come into one of the dwellings of the Coketown Hands; for the first time in her life she was face to face with anything like individuality in connection with them. She knew of their existence by hundreds and by thousands. She knew what results in work a given number of them would produce in a given space of time. She knew them in crowds passing to and from their nests, like ants or beetles. But she knew from her reading infinitely more of the ways of toiling insects than of these toiling men and women. Something to be worked so much and paid so much, and there ended; something to be infallibly settled by laws of supply and demand; something that blundered against those laws, and floundered into difficulty; something that was a little pinched when wheat was dear, and over-ate itself when wheat was cheap; something that increased at such a rate of percentage, and yielded such another percentage of crime, and such another percentage of pauperism; something wholesale, of which vast fortunes were made; something that occasionally rose like a sea, and did some harm and waste (chiefly to itself), and fell again; this she knew the Coketown Hands to be. But, she had scarcely thought more of separating them into units, than of separating the sea itself into its component drops. She stood for some moments looking round the room. From the few chairs, the few books, the common prints, and the bed, she glanced to the two women, and to Stephen. "I have come to speak to you, in consequence of what passed just now. I should like to be serviceable to you, if you will let me. Is this your wife?" Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently answered no, and dropped again. "I remember," said Louisa, reddening at her mistake; "I recollect, now, to have heard your domestic misfortunes spoken of, though I was not attending to the particulars at the time. It was not my meaning to ask a question that would give pain to any one here. If I should ask any other question that may happen to have | condemnation would not pursue him, perhaps it was almost a relief to be forced away from the endurance of the last four days, even to unknown difficulties and distresses. So he said, with truth, "I'm more leetsome, Rachael, under 't, than I could'n ha believed." It was not her part to make his burden heavier. She answered with her comforting smile, and the three walked on together. Age, especially when it strives to be self-reliant and cheerful, finds much consideration among the poor. The old woman was so decent and contented, and made so light of her infirmities, though they had increased upon her since her former interview with Stephen, that they both took an interest in her. She was too sprightly to allow of their walking at a slow pace on her account, but she was very grateful to be talked to, and very willing to talk to any extent: so, when they came to their part of the town, she was more brisk and vivacious than ever. "Come to my poor place, missus," said Stephen, "and tak a coop o' tea. Rachael will coom then; and arterwards I'll see thee safe t' thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long, Rachael, ere ever I ha th' chance o' thy coompany agen." They complied, and the three went on to the house where he lodged. When they turned into a narrow street, Stephen glanced at his window with a dread that always haunted his desolate home; but it was open, as he had left it, and no one was there. The evil spirit of his life had flitted away again, months ago, and he had heard no more of her since. The only evidence of her last return now, were the scantier moveables in his room, and the grayer hair upon his head. He lighted a candle, set out his little tea-board, got hot water from below, and brought in small portions of tea and sugar, a loaf, and some butter from the nearest shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh, and the sugar lump, of course in fulfilment of the standard testimony of the Coketown magnates, that these people lived like princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (so large a party necessitated the borrowing of a cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It was the first glimpse of sociality the host had had for many days. He too, with the world a wide heath before him, enjoyed the meal again in corroboration of the magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation on the part of these people, sir. "I ha never thowt yet, missus," said Stephen, "o' askin thy name." The old lady announced herself as "Mrs. Pegler."<|quote|>"A widder, I think?"</|quote|>said Stephen. "Oh, many long years!" Mrs. Pegler's husband (one of the best on record) was already dead, by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephen was born. "'Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one," said Stephen. "Onny children?" Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her saucer as she held it, denoted some nervousness on her part. "No," she said. "Not now, not now." "Dead, Stephen," Rachael softly hinted. "I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't," said Stephen, "I ought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch a sore place. I I blame myseln." While he excused himself, the old lady's cup rattled more and more. "I had a son," she said, curiously distressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sorrow; "and he did well, wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken of if you please. He is" Putting down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would have added, by her action, "dead!" Then she said aloud, "I have lost him." Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs, and calling him to the door, whispered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, for she caught a word as it was uttered. "Bounderby!" she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table. "Oh hide me! Don't let me be seen for the world. Don't let him come up till I've got away. Pray, pray!" She trembled, and was excessively agitated; getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried to reassure her; and not seeming to know what she was about. "But hearken, missus, hearken," said Stephen, astonished. "'Tisn't Mr. Bounderby; 'tis his wife. Yo'r not fearfo' o' her. Yo was hey-go-mad about her, but an hour sin." "But are you sure it's the lady, and not the gentleman?" she asked, still trembling. "Certain sure!" "Well then, pray don't speak to me, nor yet take any notice of me," said the old woman. "Let me be quite to myself in this corner." Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for an explanation, which she was quite unable to give him; took the candle, went downstairs, | Hard Times |
"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:" | Mary Cavendish | Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love | headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to | "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with | and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?" "No, no," he gasped. "It is it is that I have an idea!" "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your little ideas'?" "Ah, _ma foi_, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair. "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!" Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another. "What can be the matter?" I shook my head. "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said | only seen your hand shake once." "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity. "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say" But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?" "No, no," he gasped. "It is it is that I have an idea!" "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your little ideas'?" "Ah, _ma foi_, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair. "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!" Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another. "What can be the matter?" I shook my head. "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw." "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner." But night fell, and Poirot had not returned. CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK Poirot's abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish. "Madame, I have | cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses! My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once: "No, _mon ami_, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!" "What is the trouble?" I asked. With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice. "It is this, _mon ami!_ That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot" thump "find" thump "that last link of which I spoke to you." I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so. "It is done so! By placing one card on another with mathematical precision!" I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick. "What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once." "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity. "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say" But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?" "No, no," he gasped. "It is it is that I have an idea!" "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your little ideas'?" "Ah, _ma foi_, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair. "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!" Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another. "What can be the matter?" I shook my head. "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw." "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner." But night fell, and Poirot had not returned. CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK Poirot's abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish. "Madame, I have your permission to hold a little _r union_ in the _salon_? It is necessary for everyone to attend." Mary smiled sadly. "You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have _carte blanche_ in every way." "You are too amiable, madame." Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so. "Miss Howard here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. _Bien!_ We must delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note." Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat. "If that man comes into the house, I leave it!" "No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice. Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room. The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience. "_Messieurs, mesdames_, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it had | fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them." "Your memory must be unusually short!" "No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother's actual words." Mr. Philips' incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note. "You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?" "Not that I know of." "Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing carelessly disguised?" "No, I do not think so." "I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!" "No." "I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!" "No." "Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?" "No, that is a lie." "I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there and signed the register in his name!" "That is absolutely untrue." "Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury. After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday. Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well. "What is it, Poirot?" I inquired. "Ah, _mon ami_, things are going badly, badly." In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted. When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea. "No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room." I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses! My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once: "No, _mon ami_, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!" "What is the trouble?" I asked. With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice. "It is this, _mon ami!_ That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot" thump "find" thump "that last link of which I spoke to you." I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so. "It is done so! By placing one card on another with mathematical precision!" I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick. "What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once." "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity. "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say" But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?" "No, no," he gasped. "It is it is that I have an idea!" "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your little ideas'?" "Ah, _ma foi_, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair. "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!" Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another. "What can be the matter?" I shook my head. "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw." "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner." But night fell, and Poirot had not returned. CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK Poirot's abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish. "Madame, I have your permission to hold a little _r union_ in the _salon_? It is necessary for everyone to attend." Mary smiled sadly. "You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have _carte blanche_ in every way." "You are too amiable, madame." Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so. "Miss Howard here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. _Bien!_ We must delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note." Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat. "If that man comes into the house, I leave it!" "No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice. Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room. The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience. "_Messieurs, mesdames_, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy occurred. I found: first, a fragment of green material; second, a stain on the carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an empty box of bromide powders." "To take the fragment of green material first, I found it caught in the bolt of the communicating door between that room and the adjoining one occupied by Mademoiselle Cynthia. I handed the fragment over to the police who did not consider it of much importance. Nor did they recognize it for what it was a piece torn from a green land armlet." There was a little stir of excitement. "Now there was only one person at Styles who worked on the land Mrs. Cavendish. Therefore it must have been Mrs. Cavendish who entered the deceased's room through the door communicating with Mademoiselle Cynthia's room." "But that door was bolted on the inside!" I cried. "When I examined the room, yes. But in the first place we have only her word for it, since it was she who tried that particular door and reported it fastened. In the ensuing confusion she would have had ample opportunity to shoot the bolt across. I took an early opportunity of verifying my conjectures. To begin with, the fragment corresponds exactly with a tear in Mrs. Cavendish's armlet. Also, at the inquest, Mrs. Cavendish declared that she had heard, from her own room, the fall of the table by the bed. I took an early opportunity of testing that statement by stationing my friend Monsieur Hastings in the left wing of the building, just outside Mrs. Cavendish's door. I myself, in company with the police, went to the deceased's room, and whilst there I, apparently accidentally, knocked over the table in question, but found that, as I had expected, Monsieur Hastings had heard no sound at all. This confirmed my belief that Mrs. Cavendish was not speaking the truth when she declared that she had been dressing in her room at the time of the tragedy. In fact, I was convinced that, far from having been in her own room, Mrs. Cavendish was actually in the deceased's room when the alarm was given." I shot a quick glance at Mary. She was very pale, but smiling. "I proceeded to reason on that assumption. Mrs. Cavendish is in her mother-in-law's room. We will say that she is seeking for something and has not yet | put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there and signed the register in his name!" "That is absolutely untrue." "Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury. After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday. Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well. "What is it, Poirot?" I inquired. "Ah, _mon ami_, things are going badly, badly." In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted. When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea. "No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room." I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses! My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once: "No, _mon ami_, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!" "What is the trouble?" I asked. With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice. "It is this, _mon ami!_ That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot" thump "find" thump "that last link of which I spoke to you." I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so. "It is done so! By placing one card on another with mathematical precision!" I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick. "What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once." "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity. "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say" But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?" "No, no," he gasped. "It is it is that I have an idea!" "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your little ideas'?" "Ah, _ma foi_, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you _you_, my friend, have given it to me!" Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room. Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.<|quote|>"What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:"</|quote|>A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' "And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street." I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair. "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!" Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another. "What can be the matter?" I shook my head. "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw." "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner." But night fell, and Poirot had not returned. CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK Poirot's abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish. "Madame, I have your permission to hold a little _r union_ in the _salon_? It is necessary for everyone to attend." Mary | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
said Rabbit. | No speaker | said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or | a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's | And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, | noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to | Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that | if you are interested in Poetry at all?" "Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own | talking to her very excitedly, she _might_ look the other way for a moment. 9. And then I could run away with Roo. 10. Quickly. 11. _And Kanga wouldn't discover the difference until Afterwards._ Well, Rabbit read this out proudly, and for a little while after he had read it nobody said anything. And then Piglet, who had been opening and shutting his mouth without making any noise, managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?" "When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" "Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." "Oh!" "Why, what's the trouble, Piglet?" "Nothing," said Piglet, "as long as _we all three_ say it. As long as we all three say it," said Piglet, "I don't mind," he said, "but I shouldn't care to say '_Aha!_' by myself. It wouldn't sound _nearly_ so well. By the way," he said, "you _are_ quite sure about what you said about the winter months?" "The winter months?" "Yes, only being Fierce in the Winter Months." "Oh, yes, yes, that's all right. Well, Pooh? You see what you have to do?" "No," said Pooh Bear. "Not yet," he said. "What _do_ I do?" "Well, you just have to talk very hard to Kanga so as she doesn't notice anything." "Oh! What about?" "Anything you like." "You mean like telling her a little bit of poetry or something?" "That's it," said Rabbit. "Splendid. Now come along." So they all went out to look for Kanga. Kanga and Roo were spending a quiet afternoon in a sandy part of the Forest. Baby Roo was practising very small jumps in the sand, and falling down mouse-holes and climbing out of them, and Kanga was fidgeting about and saying "Just one more jump, dear, and then we must go home." And at that moment who should come stumping up the hill but Pooh. "Good afternoon, Kanga." "Good afternoon, Pooh." "Look at me jumping," squeaked Roo, and fell into another mouse-hole. "Hallo, Roo, my little fellow!" "We were just going home," said Kanga. "Good afternoon, Rabbit. Good afternoon, Piglet." Rabbit and Piglet, who had now come up from the other side of the hill, said "Good afternoon," and "Hallo, Roo," and Roo asked them to look at him jumping, so they stayed and looked. And Kanga looked too.... "Oh, Kanga," said Pooh, after Rabbit had winked at him twice, "I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?" "Hardly at all," said Kanga. "Oh!" said Pooh. "Roo, dear, just one more jump and then we must go home." There was a short silence while Roo fell down another mouse-hole. "Go on," said Rabbit in a loud whisper behind his paw. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh, "I made up a little piece as I was coming along. It went like this. Er--now let me see----" "Fancy!" said Kanga. "Now Roo, dear----" "You'll like this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never it."" And as he went up in the air he said, "_Ooooooo!_" and as he came down he said, "_Ow!_" And he was saying, "_Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow, Ooooooo-ow_" all the way to Kanga's house. Of course as soon as Kanga unbuttoned her pocket, she saw what had happened. Just for a moment, she thought she was frightened, and then she knew she wasn't; for she felt quite sure that Christopher Robin would never let any harm happen to Roo. So she said to herself, "If they are having a joke with me, I will have a joke with them." "Now then, Roo, dear," she said, as she took Piglet out of her pocket. "Bed-time." "_Aha!_" said Piglet, as well as he could after his Terrifying Journey. But it wasn't a very good "_Aha!_" and Kanga didn't seem to understand what it meant. "Bath first," said Kanga in a cheerful voice. "_Aha!_" said Piglet again, looking round anxiously for the others. But the others weren't there. Rabbit was playing with Baby Roo in his own house, and feeling more fond of him every minute, and Pooh, who had decided to be a Kanga, was still at the sandy place on the top of the Forest, practising jumps. "I am not at all sure," said Kanga in a thoughtful voice, "that it wouldn't be a good idea to have a _cold_ bath this evening. Would you like that, Roo, dear?" Piglet, who had never been really fond of baths, shuddered a long indignant shudder, and said in as brave a voice as he could: "Kanga, I see that the time has come to spleak painly." "Funny little Roo," said Kanga, as she got the bath-water ready. "I am _not_ Roo," said Piglet loudly. "I am Piglet!" "Yes, dear, yes," said Kanga soothingly. "And imitating Piglet's voice too! So clever of him," she went on, as she took a large bar of yellow soap out of the cupboard. "What _will_ he be doing next?" "Can't you _see_?" shouted Piglet. "Haven't you got _eyes_? _Look_ at me!" "I _am_ looking, Roo, dear," said Kanga rather severely. "And you know what I told you yesterday about making faces. If you go on making faces like Piglet's, you will grow up to _look_ like Piglet--and _then_ think how sorry you will be. Now then, into the bath, and don't let me have to speak to you about it again." Before he knew where he was, Piglet was in the bath, and Kanga was scrubbing him firmly with a large lathery flannel. "Ow!" cried Piglet. "Let me out! I'm Piglet!" "Don't open the mouth, dear, or the soap goes in," said Kanga. "There! What did I tell you?" "You--you--you did it on purpose," spluttered Piglet, as soon as he could speak again ... and then accidentally had another mouthful of lathery flannel. "That's right, dear, don't say anything," said Kanga, and in another minute Piglet was out of the bath, and being rubbed dry with a towel. "Now," said Kanga, "there's your medicine, and then bed." "W-w-what medicine?" said Piglet. "To make you grow big and strong, dear. You don't want to grow up small and weak like Piglet, do you? Well, then!" At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said Kanga, and in came Christopher Robin. "Christopher Robin, Christopher Robin!" cried Piglet. "Tell Kanga who I am! She keeps saying I'm Roo. I'm _not_ Roo, | this piece of poetry," said Rabbit. "You'll love it," said Piglet. "You must listen very carefully," said Rabbit. "So as not to miss any of it," said Piglet. "Oh, yes," said Kanga, but she still looked at Baby Roo. "_How_ did it go, Pooh?" said Rabbit. Pooh gave a little cough and began. "LINES WRITTEN BY A BEAR OF VERY LITTLE BRAIN On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: "Now is it true, or is it not," "That what is which and which is what?" On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it's true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose--but whose are these? On Friday---" - "Yes, it is, isn't it?" said Kanga, not waiting to hear what happened on Friday. "Just one more jump, Roo, dear, and then we really _must_ be going." Rabbit gave Pooh a hurrying-up sort of nudge. "Talking of Poetry," said Pooh quickly, "have you ever noticed that tree right over there?" "Where?" said Kanga. "Now, Roo----" "Right over there," said Pooh, pointing behind Kanga's back. "No," said Kanga. "Now jump in, Roo, dear, and we'll go home." "You ought to look at that tree right over there," said Rabbit. "Shall I lift you in, Roo?" And he picked up Roo in his paws. "I can see a bird in it from here," said Pooh. "Or is it a fish?" "You ought to see that bird from here," said Rabbit. "Unless it's a fish." "It isn't a fish, it's a bird," said Piglet. "So it is,"<|quote|>said Rabbit.</|quote|>"Is it a starling or a blackbird?" said Pooh. "That's the whole question," said Rabbit. "Is it a blackbird or a starling?" And then at last Kanga did turn her head to look. And the moment that her head was turned, Rabbit said in a loud voice "In you go, Roo!" and in jumped Piglet into Kanga's pocket, and off scampered Rabbit, with Roo in his paws, as fast as he could. "Why, where's Rabbit?" said Kanga, turning round again. "Are you all right, Roo, dear?" Piglet made a squeaky Roo-noise from the bottom of Kanga's pocket. "Rabbit had to go away," said Pooh. "I think he thought of something he had to go and see about suddenly." "And Piglet?" "I think Piglet thought of something at the same time. Suddenly." "Well, we must be getting home," said Kanga. "Good-bye, Pooh." And in three large jumps she was gone. Pooh looked after her as she went. "I wish I could jump like that," he thought. "Some can and some can't. That's how it is." But there were moments when Piglet wished that Kanga couldn't. Often, when he had had a long walk home through the Forest, he had wished that he were a bird; but now he thought jerkily to himself at the bottom of Kanga's pocket, "this take "If is shall really to flying I never | Winnie The Pooh |
"That I wonder where you found it," | Mrs. Hall | do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before | He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or | hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know | him. His next words showed as much. "Look here, my good woman" he began. "Don t good woman _me_," said Mrs. Hall. "I ve told you my remittance hasn t come." "Remittance indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. "Still, I daresay in my pocket" "You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to know how tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as stops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house, and that you _didn t_ do, and | told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance" "I told you two days ago I wasn t going to await no remittances. You can t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill s been waiting these five days, can you?" The stranger swore briefly but vividly. "Nar, nar!" from the bar. "And I d thank you kindly, sir, if you d keep your swearing to yourself, sir," said Mrs. Hall. The stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever. It was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of him. His next words showed as much. "Look here, my good woman" he began. "Don t good woman _me_," said Mrs. Hall. "I ve told you my remittance hasn t come." "Remittance indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. "Still, I daresay in my pocket" "You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to know how tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as stops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house, and that you _didn t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come in. And I want to know" Suddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his foot, and said, "Stop!" with such extraordinary violence that he silenced her instantly. "You don t understand," he said, "who I am or what I am. I ll show you. By Heaven! I ll show you." Then he put his open palm over his face and withdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity. "Here," he said. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she, staring at his metamorphosed | in his uncomfortable hot wrappings, pored through his dark glasses upon his paper or chinked his dirty little bottles, and occasionally swore savagely at the boys, audible if invisible, outside the windows. In the corner by the fireplace lay the fragments of half a dozen smashed bottles, and a pungent twang of chlorine tainted the air. So much we know from what was heard at the time and from what was subsequently seen in the room. About noon he suddenly opened his parlour door and stood glaring fixedly at the three or four people in the bar. "Mrs. Hall," he said. Somebody went sheepishly and called for Mrs. Hall. Mrs. Hall appeared after an interval, a little short of breath, but all the fiercer for that. Hall was still out. She had deliberated over this scene, and she came holding a little tray with an unsettled bill upon it. "Is it your bill you re wanting, sir?" she said. "Why wasn t my breakfast laid? Why haven t you prepared my meals and answered my bell? Do you think I live without eating?" "Why isn t my bill paid?" said Mrs. Hall. "That s what I want to know." "I told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance" "I told you two days ago I wasn t going to await no remittances. You can t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill s been waiting these five days, can you?" The stranger swore briefly but vividly. "Nar, nar!" from the bar. "And I d thank you kindly, sir, if you d keep your swearing to yourself, sir," said Mrs. Hall. The stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever. It was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of him. His next words showed as much. "Look here, my good woman" he began. "Don t good woman _me_," said Mrs. Hall. "I ve told you my remittance hasn t come." "Remittance indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. "Still, I daresay in my pocket" "You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to know how tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as stops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house, and that you _didn t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come in. And I want to know" Suddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his foot, and said, "Stop!" with such extraordinary violence that he silenced her instantly. "You don t understand," he said, "who I am or what I am. I ll show you. By Heaven! I ll show you." Then he put his open palm over his face and withdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity. "Here," he said. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she, staring at his metamorphosed face, accepted automatically. Then, when she saw what it was, she screamed loudly, dropped it, and staggered back. The nose it was the stranger s nose! pink and shining rolled on the floor. Then he removed his spectacles, and everyone in the bar gasped. He took off his hat, and with a violent gesture tore at his whiskers and bandages. For a moment they resisted him. A flash of horrible anticipation passed through the bar. "Oh, my Gard!" said some one. Then off they came. It was worse than anything. Mrs. Hall, standing open-mouthed and horror-struck, shrieked at what she saw, and made for the door of the house. Everyone began to move. They were prepared for scars, disfigurements, tangible horrors, but nothing! The bandages and false hair flew across the passage into the bar, making a hobbledehoy jump to avoid them. Everyone tumbled on everyone else down the steps. For the man who stood there shouting some incoherent explanation, was a solid gesticulating figure up to the coat-collar of him, and then nothingness, no visible thing at all! People down the village heard shouts and shrieks, and looking up the street saw the "Coach and Horses" violently firing out | husband up to that pitch. At last he rapped, opened the door, and got as far as, "Excuse me" "Go to the devil!" said the stranger in a tremendous voice, and "Shut that door after you." So that brief interview terminated. CHAPTER VII. THE UNVEILING OF THE STRANGER The stranger went into the little parlour of the "Coach and Horses" about half-past five in the morning, and there he remained until near midday, the blinds down, the door shut, and none, after Hall s repulse, venturing near him. All that time he must have fasted. Thrice he rang his bell, the third time furiously and continuously, but no one answered him. "Him and his go to the devil indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. Presently came an imperfect rumour of the burglary at the vicarage, and two and two were put together. Hall, assisted by Wadgers, went off to find Mr. Shuckleforth, the magistrate, and take his advice. No one ventured upstairs. How the stranger occupied himself is unknown. Now and then he would stride violently up and down, and twice came an outburst of curses, a tearing of paper, and a violent smashing of bottles. The little group of scared but curious people increased. Mrs. Huxter came over; some gay young fellows resplendent in black ready-made jackets and _piqu _ paper ties for it was Whit Monday joined the group with confused interrogations. Young Archie Harker distinguished himself by going up the yard and trying to peep under the window-blinds. He could see nothing, but gave reason for supposing that he did, and others of the Iping youth presently joined him. It was the finest of all possible Whit Mondays, and down the village street stood a row of nearly a dozen booths, a shooting gallery, and on the grass by the forge were three yellow and chocolate waggons and some picturesque strangers of both sexes putting up a cocoanut shy. The gentlemen wore blue jerseys, the ladies white aprons and quite fashionable hats with heavy plumes. Wodger, of the "Purple Fawn," and Mr. Jaggers, the cobbler, who also sold old second-hand ordinary bicycles, were stretching a string of union-jacks and royal ensigns (which had originally celebrated the first Victorian Jubilee) across the road. And inside, in the artificial darkness of the parlour, into which only one thin jet of sunlight penetrated, the stranger, hungry we must suppose, and fearful, hidden in his uncomfortable hot wrappings, pored through his dark glasses upon his paper or chinked his dirty little bottles, and occasionally swore savagely at the boys, audible if invisible, outside the windows. In the corner by the fireplace lay the fragments of half a dozen smashed bottles, and a pungent twang of chlorine tainted the air. So much we know from what was heard at the time and from what was subsequently seen in the room. About noon he suddenly opened his parlour door and stood glaring fixedly at the three or four people in the bar. "Mrs. Hall," he said. Somebody went sheepishly and called for Mrs. Hall. Mrs. Hall appeared after an interval, a little short of breath, but all the fiercer for that. Hall was still out. She had deliberated over this scene, and she came holding a little tray with an unsettled bill upon it. "Is it your bill you re wanting, sir?" she said. "Why wasn t my breakfast laid? Why haven t you prepared my meals and answered my bell? Do you think I live without eating?" "Why isn t my bill paid?" said Mrs. Hall. "That s what I want to know." "I told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance" "I told you two days ago I wasn t going to await no remittances. You can t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill s been waiting these five days, can you?" The stranger swore briefly but vividly. "Nar, nar!" from the bar. "And I d thank you kindly, sir, if you d keep your swearing to yourself, sir," said Mrs. Hall. The stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever. It was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of him. His next words showed as much. "Look here, my good woman" he began. "Don t good woman _me_," said Mrs. Hall. "I ve told you my remittance hasn t come." "Remittance indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. "Still, I daresay in my pocket" "You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to know how tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as stops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house, and that you _didn t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come in. And I want to know" Suddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his foot, and said, "Stop!" with such extraordinary violence that he silenced her instantly. "You don t understand," he said, "who I am or what I am. I ll show you. By Heaven! I ll show you." Then he put his open palm over his face and withdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity. "Here," he said. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she, staring at his metamorphosed face, accepted automatically. Then, when she saw what it was, she screamed loudly, dropped it, and staggered back. The nose it was the stranger s nose! pink and shining rolled on the floor. Then he removed his spectacles, and everyone in the bar gasped. He took off his hat, and with a violent gesture tore at his whiskers and bandages. For a moment they resisted him. A flash of horrible anticipation passed through the bar. "Oh, my Gard!" said some one. Then off they came. It was worse than anything. Mrs. Hall, standing open-mouthed and horror-struck, shrieked at what she saw, and made for the door of the house. Everyone began to move. They were prepared for scars, disfigurements, tangible horrors, but nothing! The bandages and false hair flew across the passage into the bar, making a hobbledehoy jump to avoid them. Everyone tumbled on everyone else down the steps. For the man who stood there shouting some incoherent explanation, was a solid gesticulating figure up to the coat-collar of him, and then nothingness, no visible thing at all! People down the village heard shouts and shrieks, and looking up the street saw the "Coach and Horses" violently firing out its humanity. They saw Mrs. Hall fall down and Mr. Teddy Henfrey jump to avoid tumbling over her, and then they heard the frightful screams of Millie, who, emerging suddenly from the kitchen at the noise of the tumult, had come upon the headless stranger from behind. These increased suddenly. Forthwith everyone all down the street, the sweetstuff seller, cocoanut shy proprietor and his assistant, the swing man, little boys and girls, rustic dandies, smart wenches, smocked elders and aproned gipsies began running towards the inn, and in a miraculously short space of time a crowd of perhaps forty people, and rapidly increasing, swayed and hooted and inquired and exclaimed and suggested, in front of Mrs. Hall s establishment. Everyone seemed eager to talk at once, and the result was Babel. A small group supported Mrs. Hall, who was picked up in a state of collapse. There was a conference, and the incredible evidence of a vociferous eye-witness. "O Bogey!" "What s he been doin , then?" "Ain t hurt the girl, as e?" "Run at en with a knife, I believe." "No ed, I tell ye. I don t mean no manner of speaking. I mean _marn ithout a ed_!" "Narnsense! tis some conjuring trick." "Fetched off is wrapping, e did " In its struggles to see in through the open door, the crowd formed itself into a straggling wedge, with the more adventurous apex nearest the inn. "He stood for a moment, I heerd the gal scream, and he turned. I saw her skirts whisk, and he went after her. Didn t take ten seconds. Back he comes with a knife in uz hand and a loaf; stood just as if he was staring. Not a moment ago. Went in that there door. I tell e, e ain t gart no ed at all. You just missed en " There was a disturbance behind, and the speaker stopped to step aside for a little procession that was marching very resolutely towards the house; first Mr. Hall, very red and determined, then Mr. Bobby Jaffers, the village constable, and then the wary Mr. Wadgers. They had come now armed with a warrant. People shouted conflicting information of the recent circumstances. "Ed or no ed," said Jaffers, "I got to rest en, and rest en I _will_." Mr. Hall marched up the steps, marched straight to the door of the | meals and answered my bell? Do you think I live without eating?" "Why isn t my bill paid?" said Mrs. Hall. "That s what I want to know." "I told you three days ago I was awaiting a remittance" "I told you two days ago I wasn t going to await no remittances. You can t grumble if your breakfast waits a bit, if my bill s been waiting these five days, can you?" The stranger swore briefly but vividly. "Nar, nar!" from the bar. "And I d thank you kindly, sir, if you d keep your swearing to yourself, sir," said Mrs. Hall. The stranger stood looking more like an angry diving-helmet than ever. It was universally felt in the bar that Mrs. Hall had the better of him. His next words showed as much. "Look here, my good woman" he began. "Don t good woman _me_," said Mrs. Hall. "I ve told you my remittance hasn t come." "Remittance indeed!" said Mrs. Hall. "Still, I daresay in my pocket" "You told me three days ago that you hadn t anything but a sovereign s worth of silver upon you." "Well, I ve found some more" " Ul-lo!" from the bar. "I wonder where you found it," said Mrs. Hall. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much. He stamped his foot. "What do you mean?" he said.<|quote|>"That I wonder where you found it,"</|quote|>said Mrs. Hall. "And before I take any bills or get any breakfasts, or do any such things whatsoever, you got to tell me one or two things I don t understand, and what nobody don t understand, and what everybody is very anxious to understand. I want to know what you been doing t my chair upstairs, and I want to know how tis your room was empty, and how you got in again. Them as stops in this house comes in by the doors that s the rule of the house, and that you _didn t_ do, and what I want to know is how you _did_ come in. And I want to know" Suddenly the stranger raised his gloved hands clenched, stamped his foot, and said, "Stop!" with such extraordinary violence that he silenced her instantly. "You don t understand," he said, "who I am or what I am. I ll show you. By Heaven! I ll show you." Then he put his open palm over his face and withdrew it. The centre of his face became a black cavity. "Here," he said. He stepped forward and handed Mrs. Hall something which she, staring at his metamorphosed face, accepted automatically. Then, when she saw what it was, she screamed loudly, dropped it, and staggered back. The nose it was the stranger s nose! pink and shining rolled on the floor. Then he removed his spectacles, and everyone in the bar gasped. He took off his hat, and with a violent gesture tore at his whiskers and bandages. For a moment they resisted him. A flash of horrible anticipation passed through the bar. "Oh, my Gard!" said some one. Then off they came. It was worse than anything. Mrs. Hall, standing open-mouthed and horror-struck, shrieked at what she saw, and made for the door of the house. Everyone began to move. They were prepared for scars, disfigurements, tangible horrors, but nothing! The bandages and false hair flew across the passage into the bar, making a hobbledehoy jump to avoid them. Everyone tumbled on everyone else down the steps. | The Invisible Man |
"We must realize Cyril s point of view first," | Katharine Hilbery | see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to | in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to | facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the | was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of | to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone | tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street," Aunt Celia continued firmly. "A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone out of the station just as I arrived, I should have been with you before. Celia has doubtless told you. You will agree with me, Maggie. He must be made to marry her at once for the sake of the children" "But does he refuse to marry her?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired, with a return of her bewilderment. "He has written an absurd perverted letter, all quotations," Cousin Caroline puffed. "He thinks he s doing a very fine thing, where we only see the folly of it.... The girl s every bit as infatuated as he is for which I blame him." "She entangled him," Aunt Celia intervened, with a very curious smoothness of intonation, which seemed to convey a vision of threads weaving and interweaving a close, white mesh round their victim. "It s no use going into the rights and wrongs of the affair now, Celia," said Cousin Caroline with some acerbity, for she believed herself the only practical one of the family, and regretted that, owing to the slowness of the kitchen clock, Mrs. Milvain had already confused poor dear Maggie with her own incomplete version of the facts. "The mischief s done, and very ugly mischief too. | talk about Cyril, mother," she said rather brutally. "Aunt Celia has discovered that Cyril is married. He has a wife and children." "No, he is _not_ married," Mrs. Milvain interposed, in low tones, addressing herself to Mrs. Hilbery. "He has two children, and another on the way." Mrs. Hilbery looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "We thought it better to wait until it was proved before we told you," Katharine added. "But I met Cyril only a fortnight ago at the National Gallery!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "I don t believe a word of it," and she tossed her head with a smile on her lips at Mrs. Milvain, as though she could quite understand her mistake, which was a very natural mistake, in the case of a childless woman, whose husband was something very dull in the Board of Trade. "I didn t _wish_ to believe it, Maggie," said Mrs. Milvain. "For a long time I _couldn t_ believe it. But now I ve seen, and I _have_ to believe it." "Katharine," Mrs. Hilbery demanded, "does your father know of this?" Katharine nodded. "Cyril married!" Mrs. Hilbery repeated. "And never telling us a word, though we ve had him in our house since he was a child noble William s son! I can t believe my ears!" Feeling that the burden of proof was laid upon her, Mrs. Milvain now proceeded with her story. She was elderly and fragile, but her childlessness seemed always to impose these painful duties on her, and to revere the family, and to keep it in repair, had now become the chief object of her life. She told her story in a low, spasmodic, and somewhat broken voice. "I have suspected for some time that he was not happy. There were new lines on his face. So I went to his rooms, when I knew he was engaged at the poor men s college. He lectures there Roman law, you know, or it may be Greek. The landlady said Mr. Alardyce only slept there about once a fortnight now. He looked so ill, she said. She had seen him with a young person. I suspected something directly. I went to his room, and there was an envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street," Aunt Celia continued firmly. "A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone out of the station just as I arrived, I should have been with you before. Celia has doubtless told you. You will agree with me, Maggie. He must be made to marry her at once for the sake of the children" "But does he refuse to marry her?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired, with a return of her bewilderment. "He has written an absurd perverted letter, all quotations," Cousin Caroline puffed. "He thinks he s doing a very fine thing, where we only see the folly of it.... The girl s every bit as infatuated as he is for which I blame him." "She entangled him," Aunt Celia intervened, with a very curious smoothness of intonation, which seemed to convey a vision of threads weaving and interweaving a close, white mesh round their victim. "It s no use going into the rights and wrongs of the affair now, Celia," said Cousin Caroline with some acerbity, for she believed herself the only practical one of the family, and regretted that, owing to the slowness of the kitchen clock, Mrs. Milvain had already confused poor dear Maggie with her own incomplete version of the facts. "The mischief s done, and very ugly mischief too. Are we to allow the third child to be born out of wedlock? (I am sorry to have to say these things before you, Katharine.) He will bear your name, Maggie your father s name, remember." "But let us hope it will be a girl," said Mrs. Hilbery. Katharine, who had been looking at her mother constantly, while the chatter of tongues held sway, perceived that the look of straightforward indignation had already vanished; her mother was evidently casting about in her mind for some method of escape, or bright spot, or sudden illumination which should show to the satisfaction of everybody that all had happened, miraculously but incontestably, for the best. "It s detestable quite detestable!" she repeated, but in tones of no great assurance; and then her face lit up with a smile which, tentative at first, soon became almost assured. "Nowadays, people don t think so badly of these things as they used to do," she began. "It will be horribly uncomfortable for them sometimes, but if they are brave, clever children, as they will be, I dare say it ll make remarkable people of them in the end. Robert Browning used to say that every great man has Jewish blood in him, and we must try to look at it in that light. And, after all, Cyril has acted on principle. One may disagree with his principle, but, at least, one can respect it like the French Revolution, or Cromwell cutting the King s head off. Some of the most terrible things in history have been done on principle," she concluded. "I m afraid I take a very different view of principle," Cousin Caroline remarked tartly. "Principle!" Aunt Celia repeated, with an air of deprecating such a word in such a connection. "I will go to-morrow and see him," she added. "But why should you take these disagreeable things upon yourself, Celia?" Mrs. Hilbery interposed, and Cousin Caroline thereupon protested with some further plan involving sacrifice of herself. Growing weary of it all, Katharine turned to the window, and stood among the folds of the curtain, pressing close to the window-pane, and gazing disconsolately at the river much in the attitude of a child depressed by the meaningless talk of its elders. She was much disappointed in her mother and in herself too. The little tug which she gave to the blind, letting it fly up | envelope on the mantelpiece, and a letter with an address in Seton Street, off the Kennington Road." Mrs. Hilbery fidgeted rather restlessly, and hummed fragments of her tune, as if to interrupt. "I went to Seton Street," Aunt Celia continued firmly. "A very low place lodging-houses, you know, with canaries in the window. Number seven just like all the others. I rang, I knocked; no one came. I went down the area. I am certain I saw some one inside children a cradle. But no reply no reply." She sighed, and looked straight in front of her with a glazed expression in her half-veiled blue eyes. "I stood in the street," she resumed, "in case I could catch a sight of one of them. It seemed a very long time. There were rough men singing in the public-house round the corner. At last the door opened, and some one it must have been the woman herself came right past me. There was only the pillar-box between us." "And what did she look like?" Mrs. Hilbery demanded. "One could see how the poor boy had been deluded," was all that Mrs. Milvain vouchsafed by way of description. "Poor thing!" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Poor Cyril!" Mrs. Milvain said, laying a slight emphasis upon Cyril. "But they ve got nothing to live upon," Mrs. Hilbery continued. "If he d come to us like a man," she went on, "and said, I ve been a fool, one would have pitied him; one would have tried to help him. There s nothing so disgraceful after all But he s been going about all these years, pretending, letting one take it for granted, that he was single. And the poor deserted little wife" "She is _not_ his wife," Aunt Celia interrupted. "I ve never heard anything so detestable!" Mrs. Hilbery wound up, striking her fist on the arm of her chair. As she realized the facts she became thoroughly disgusted, although, perhaps, she was more hurt by the concealment of the sin than by the sin itself. She looked splendidly roused and indignant; and Katharine felt an immense relief and pride in her mother. It was plain that her indignation was very genuine, and that her mind was as perfectly focused upon the facts as any one could wish more so, by a long way, than Aunt Celia s mind, which seemed to be timidly circling, with a morbid pleasure, in these unpleasant shades. She and her mother together would take the situation in hand, visit Cyril, and see the whole thing through.<|quote|>"We must realize Cyril s point of view first,"</|quote|>she said, speaking directly to her mother, as if to a contemporary, but before the words were out of her mouth, there was more confusion outside, and Cousin Caroline, Mrs. Hilbery s maiden cousin, entered the room. Although she was by birth an Alardyce, and Aunt Celia a Hilbery, the complexities of the family relationship were such that each was at once first and second cousin to the other, and thus aunt and cousin to the culprit Cyril, so that his misbehavior was almost as much Cousin Caroline s affair as Aunt Celia s. Cousin Caroline was a lady of very imposing height and circumference, but in spite of her size and her handsome trappings, there was something exposed and unsheltered in her expression, as if for many summers her thin red skin and hooked nose and reduplication of chins, so much resembling the profile of a cockatoo, had been bared to the weather; she was, indeed, a single lady; but she had, it was the habit to say, "made a life for herself," and was thus entitled to be heard with respect. "This unhappy business," she began, out of breath as she was. "If the train had not gone out of the station just as I arrived, I should have been with you before. Celia has doubtless told you. You will agree with me, Maggie. He must be made to marry her at once for the sake of the children" "But does he refuse to marry her?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired, with a return of her bewilderment. "He has written an absurd perverted letter, all quotations," Cousin Caroline puffed. "He thinks he s doing a very fine thing, where we only see the folly | Night And Day |
I pressed her to me. | No speaker | part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you | And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little | her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This | Gertie, who firmly believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M. As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived. As I grew | tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her. “Who will tell me stories now?” It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M. As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl—the makings of a woman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more. It came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquer their fate, while women, metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tied hands and patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither, battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this yoke; I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was reconciled to that part of my fate. | my position against the wattle-tree until Gertie came to inform me that tea was ready. “You know, Sybylla, it was your turn to get the tea ready; but I set the table to save you from getting into a row. Mother was looking for you, and said she supposed you were in one of your tantrums again.” Pretty little peacemaker! She often did things like that for me. “Very well, Gertie, thank you. I will set it two evenings running to make up for it—if I’m here.” “If you are here! What do you mean?” “I am going away,” I replied, watching her narrowly to see if she cared, for I was very hungry for love. “Going to run away becauses mother is always scolding you?” “No, you little silly! I’m going up to Caddagat to live with grannie.” “Always?” “Yes.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Honour bright?” “Yes; really and truly and honour bright.” “Won’t you ever come back again?” “I don’t know about _never_ coming back again; but I’m going up for always, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?” Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face fell, the ready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her. “Who will tell me stories now?” It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M. As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl—the makings of a woman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more. It came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquer their fate, while women, metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tied hands and patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither, battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this yoke; I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was reconciled to that part of my fate. In fact, I found that being a girl was quite pleasant until a hideous truth dawned upon me—I was ugly! That truth has embittered my whole existence. It gives me days and nights of agony. It is a sensitive sore that will never heal, a grim hobgoblin that nought can scare away. In conjunction with this brand of hell I developed a reputation of cleverness. Worse and worse! Girls! girls! Those of you who have hearts, and therefore a wish for happiness, homes, and husbands by and by, never develop a reputation of being clever. It will put you out of the matrimonial running as effectually as though it had been circulated that you had leprosy. So, if you feel that you are afflicted with more than ordinary intelligence, and especially if you are plain with it, hide your brains, cramp your mind, study to appear unintellectual—it is your only chance. Provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made for all her shortcomings. She can be unchaste, vapid, untruthful, flippant, heartless, and even clever; so long as she is fair to see men will stand by her, and as men, in this world, are “the dog on top” , | in the letter, I walked out of the house over a low hill at the back into a gully, where I threw myself at the foot of a wattle in a favourite clump, and gave way to my thoughts. So mother had been telling my grandmother of my faults—my grandmother whom I loved so dearly. Mother might have had enough honour and motherly protection to have kept the tale of my sins to herself. Though this intelligence angered, it did not surprise me, being accustomed to mother telling every neighbour what a great trial I was to her—how discontented I was, and what little interest I took in my work. It was the last part of the letter which finished up my feelings. Oh heavens! Surely if my mother understood the wild pain, the days and hours of agony pure and complete I have suffered on account of my appearance, she would never have shown me that letter. I was to be given more time on account of being ugly—I was not a valuable article in the marriage market, sweet thought! My grandmother is one of the good old school, who believed that a girl’s only proper sphere in life was marriage; so, knowing her sentiments, her purpose to get me married neither surprised nor annoyed me. But I was plain. Ah, bosh! Oh! Ah! I cannot express what kind of a feeling that fact gave me. It sank into my heart and cut like a cruel jagged knife—not because it would be a drawback to me in the marriage line, for I had an antipathy to the very thought of marriage. Marriage to me appeared the most horribly tied-down and unfair-to-women existence going. It would be from fair to middling if there was love; but I laughed at the idea of love, and determined never, never, never to marry. The other side of the letter—the part which gave me joy—was the prospect of going to Caddagat. Caddagat, the place where I was born! Caddagat, whereat, enfolded in grandmotherly love and the petting which accrued therefrom, I spent some of my few sweet childish days. Caddagat, the place my heart fondly enshrines as home. Caddagat, draped by nature in a dream of beauty. Caddagat, Caddagat! Caddagat for me, Caddagat for ever! I say. Too engrossed with my thoughts to feel the cold of the dull winter day, I remained in my position against the wattle-tree until Gertie came to inform me that tea was ready. “You know, Sybylla, it was your turn to get the tea ready; but I set the table to save you from getting into a row. Mother was looking for you, and said she supposed you were in one of your tantrums again.” Pretty little peacemaker! She often did things like that for me. “Very well, Gertie, thank you. I will set it two evenings running to make up for it—if I’m here.” “If you are here! What do you mean?” “I am going away,” I replied, watching her narrowly to see if she cared, for I was very hungry for love. “Going to run away becauses mother is always scolding you?” “No, you little silly! I’m going up to Caddagat to live with grannie.” “Always?” “Yes.” “Really?” “Yes.” “Honour bright?” “Yes; really and truly and honour bright.” “Won’t you ever come back again?” “I don’t know about _never_ coming back again; but I’m going up for always, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?” Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face fell, the ready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her. “Who will tell me stories now?” It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M. As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl—the makings of a woman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more. It came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquer their fate, while women, metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tied hands and patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither, battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this yoke; I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was reconciled to that part of my fate. In fact, I found that being a girl was quite pleasant until a hideous truth dawned upon me—I was ugly! That truth has embittered my whole existence. It gives me days and nights of agony. It is a sensitive sore that will never heal, a grim hobgoblin that nought can scare away. In conjunction with this brand of hell I developed a reputation of cleverness. Worse and worse! Girls! girls! Those of you who have hearts, and therefore a wish for happiness, homes, and husbands by and by, never develop a reputation of being clever. It will put you out of the matrimonial running as effectually as though it had been circulated that you had leprosy. So, if you feel that you are afflicted with more than ordinary intelligence, and especially if you are plain with it, hide your brains, cramp your mind, study to appear unintellectual—it is your only chance. Provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made for all her shortcomings. She can be unchaste, vapid, untruthful, flippant, heartless, and even clever; so long as she is fair to see men will stand by her, and as men, in this world, are “the dog on top” , they are the power to truckle to. A plain woman will have nothing forgiven her. Her fate is such that the parents of uncomely female infants should be compelled to put them to death at their birth. The next unpleasant discovery I made in regard to myself was that I was woefully out of my sphere. I studied the girls of my age around me, and compared myself with them. We had been reared side by side. They had had equal advantages; some, indeed, had had greater. We all moved in the one little, dull world, but they were not only in their world, they were of it; I was not. Their daily tasks and their little pleasures provided sufficient oil for the lamp of their existence—mine demanded more than Possum Gully could supply. They were totally ignorant of the outside world. Patti, Melba, Irving, Terry, Kipling, Caine, Corelli, and even the name of Gladstone, were only names to them. Whether they were islands or racehorses they knew not and cared not. With me it was different. Where I obtained my information, unless it was born in me, I do not know. We took none but the local paper regularly, I saw few books, had the pleasure of conversing with an educated person from the higher walks of life about once in a twelvemonth, yet I knew of every celebrity in literature, art, music, and drama; their world was my world, and in fancy I lived with them. My parents discouraged me in that species of foolishness. They had been fond of literature and the higher arts, but now, having no use for them, had lost interest therein. I was discontented and restless, and longed unendurably to be out in the stream of life. “Action! Action! Give me action!” was my cry. My mother did her best with me according to her lights. She energetically preached at me. All the old saws and homilies were brought into requisition, but without avail. It was like using common nostrums on a disease which could be treated by none but a special physician. I was treated to a great deal of harping on that tiresome old string, “Whatsoever your hand findeth to do, do it with all your might.” It was daily dinned into my cars that the little things of life were the noblest, and that all the great people I mooned | bright.” “Won’t you ever come back again?” “I don’t know about _never_ coming back again; but I’m going up for always, as far as a person can lay out ahead of her. Do you care?” Yes she cared. The childish mouth quivered, the pretty blue-eyed face fell, the ready tears flowed fast. I noticed every detail with savage comfort. It was more than I deserved, for, though I loved her passionately, I had ever been too much wrapped in self to have been very kind and lovable to her. “Who will tell me stories now?” It was a habit of mine to relate stories to her out of my own fertile imagination. In return for this she kept secret the fact that I sat up and wrote when I should have been in bed. I was obliged to take some means of inducing her to keep silence, as she—even Gertie, who firmly believed in me—on waking once or twice at unearthly hours and discovering me in pursuit of my nightly task, had been so alarmed for my sanity that I had the greatest work to prevent her from yelling to father and mother on the spot. But I bound her to secrecy, and took a strange delight in bringing to her face with my stories the laughter, the wide-eyed wonder, or the tears—just as my humour dictated. “You’ll easily get someone else to tell you stories.” “Not like yours. And who will take my part when Horace bullies me?”<|quote|>I pressed her to me.</|quote|>“Gertie, Gertie, promise me you will love me a little always, and never, never forget me. Promise me.” And with a weakly glint of winter sunshine turning her hair to gold, and with her head on my shoulder, Gertie promised—promised with the soluble promise of a butterfly-natured child. SELF-ANALYSIS N.B.—This is dull and egotistical. Better skip it. That’s my advice—S. P. M. As a tiny child I was filled with dreams of the great things I was to do when grown up. My ambition was as boundless as the mighty bush in which I have always lived. As I grew it dawned upon me that I was a girl—the makings of a woman! Only a girl—merely this and nothing more. It came home to me as a great blow that it was only men who could take the world by its ears and conquer their fate, while women, metaphorically speaking, were forced to sit with tied hands and patiently suffer as the waves of fate tossed them hither and thither, battering and bruising without mercy. Familiarity made me used to this yoke; I recovered from the disappointment of being a girl, and was reconciled to that part of my fate. In fact, I found that being a girl was quite pleasant until a hideous truth dawned upon me—I was ugly! That truth has embittered my whole existence. It gives me days and nights of agony. It is a sensitive sore that will never heal, a grim hobgoblin that nought can scare away. In conjunction with this brand of hell I developed a reputation of cleverness. Worse and worse! Girls! girls! Those of you who have hearts, and therefore a wish for happiness, homes, and husbands by and by, never develop a reputation of being clever. It will put you out of the matrimonial running as effectually as though it had been circulated that you had leprosy. So, if you feel that you are afflicted with more than ordinary intelligence, and especially if you are plain with it, hide your brains, cramp your mind, study to appear unintellectual—it is your only chance. Provided a woman is beautiful allowance will be made for all her shortcomings. She can be unchaste, vapid, untruthful, flippant, heartless, and even clever; so long as she is fair to see men will stand by her, and as men, in this world, are “the dog on top” , they are the power to truckle to. A plain woman will have nothing forgiven her. Her fate is such that the parents of uncomely female infants should be compelled to put them to death at their birth. The next unpleasant discovery I made in regard to myself was that I was woefully out of my sphere. I studied | My Brilliant Career |
continued the constable. | No speaker | you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and | Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if | you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it | more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he | master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" | You did not notice anything, Lindon?" "No, uncle, and I hardly think he could have been left alone." "But the money is missing; some of it was dropped; this man is always penniless; he has not drawn his wages, and yet he is half tipsy and treating his companions. I hope I am not suspecting him wrongfully, but it looks bad, Lindon, it looks bad." The old merchant sat down and began to write. So did Don, who felt better now, and the time glided on till there were the sounds of feet heard in the yard, and directly after Mike, looking very red-eyed and flushed, entered the office, half pushed in by Jem Wimble and a hard-faced ugly man, who had a peculiar chip out of, or dent in, his nose. "Morn', master," said Mike, boisterously. "Couldn't yer get on without yer best man i' th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you | "Be off!" The little woman gave him an angry look, and then hurried from the office, looking put out and hurt. "This money must be found," said Uncle Josiah sternly, as soon as they were alone. "You are sure that you have seen no more, Lindon?" "Quite, uncle. I'm sorry I forgot about the guinea I found." "Yes!" said Uncle Josiah, giving him a quick searching look. "You are quite certain, Wimble?" "Me, sir? Oh, yes; I'm moral sartain." "I should be sorry to suspect any one, and behave unjustly, but I must have this matter cleared up. Michael Bannock is away, and I cannot conceive his being absent without money, unless he is ill. Wimble, go and see." "Yes, sir," said the yard-man, with alacrity; and he went off shaking his head, as if all this was a puzzle beyond his capacity to comprehend. "You had better go to your desk, Lindon," said Uncle Josiah, coldly. Don started, and mounted his stool, but he could not write. His brain was confused; and from time to time he glanced at the stern-looking old merchant, and tried to grasp his thoughts. "Surely uncle can't suspect me--surely he can't suspect me!" he found himself saying again, and the trouble seemed to increase till he felt as if he must speak out and say how sorry he was that he had picked up the money and forgotten all about it, when Jem returned. "He arn't ill, sir," said the man eagerly, "I found him close by, at the Little Half Moon, in the back street." "Drinking?" "Yes, sir, and treating a lot of his mates. He wanted me to have some, and when I wouldn't, he said I should, and emptied half a glass over me. See here." He held up one of his broad skirts which was liberally splashed. Uncle Josiah frowned, and took a turn or two up and down the office. Then he stopped before Jem. "Go round to Smithers the constable. You know: the man who came when the rum was broached." "Yes, sir, I know." "Ask Smithers to bring Michael Bannock round here. I must clear this matter up." "Yes, sir," said Jem; and he hurried out, while Don drew a long breath. "Uncle does not suspect me," he said to himself. "The scoundrel! He must have taken advantage of your back being turned to come in here. You did not notice anything, Lindon?" "No, uncle, and I hardly think he could have been left alone." "But the money is missing; some of it was dropped; this man is always penniless; he has not drawn his wages, and yet he is half tipsy and treating his companions. I hope I am not suspecting him wrongfully, but it looks bad, Lindon, it looks bad." The old merchant sat down and began to write. So did Don, who felt better now, and the time glided on till there were the sounds of feet heard in the yard, and directly after Mike, looking very red-eyed and flushed, entered the office, half pushed in by Jem Wimble and a hard-faced ugly man, who had a peculiar chip out of, or dent in, his nose. "Morn', master," said Mike, boisterously. "Couldn't yer get on without yer best man i' th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I told you it wouldn't do, Master Don. I begged you not to." "You villain!" cried Don, grinding his teeth, while his uncle watched him with a sidelong look. "Calling names won't mend it, my lad. I knowed it was wrong. I telled him not to, sir, but he would." This was to the constable in a confidential tone, and that functionary responded with a solemn wink. "It is not true, uncle!" cried Don again. "Oh, come now," said Mike, shaking his head with half tipsy reproach, "I wouldn't make worse on it, my lad, by telling a lot o' lies. You did wrong, as I says to you at the time; but you was so orbst'nate you would. Says as you'd got such lots of money, master, as you'd never miss it." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a sound resembling a disgusted grunt, and turned from the speaker, who continued reproachfully to Don,-- "What you've got to do, my lad, is to go down on your bended knees to your uncle, as is a good master as ever lived--and I will say that, come what may--and ask him to let you off this time, and you won't do so any more." "Uncle, you won't believe what he says?" cried Don wildly. Uncle Josiah did not reply, only looked at him searchingly. "He can't help believing it, my lad," said Mike sadly. "It's werry shocking in one so young." Don made a desperate struggle to free himself from Jem's encircling arms, but the man held fast. "No, no, my lad; keep quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do | sir, and treating a lot of his mates. He wanted me to have some, and when I wouldn't, he said I should, and emptied half a glass over me. See here." He held up one of his broad skirts which was liberally splashed. Uncle Josiah frowned, and took a turn or two up and down the office. Then he stopped before Jem. "Go round to Smithers the constable. You know: the man who came when the rum was broached." "Yes, sir, I know." "Ask Smithers to bring Michael Bannock round here. I must clear this matter up." "Yes, sir," said Jem; and he hurried out, while Don drew a long breath. "Uncle does not suspect me," he said to himself. "The scoundrel! He must have taken advantage of your back being turned to come in here. You did not notice anything, Lindon?" "No, uncle, and I hardly think he could have been left alone." "But the money is missing; some of it was dropped; this man is always penniless; he has not drawn his wages, and yet he is half tipsy and treating his companions. I hope I am not suspecting him wrongfully, but it looks bad, Lindon, it looks bad." The old merchant sat down and began to write. So did Don, who felt better now, and the time glided on till there were the sounds of feet heard in the yard, and directly after Mike, looking very red-eyed and flushed, entered the office, half pushed in by Jem Wimble and a hard-faced ugly man, who had a peculiar chip out of, or dent in, his nose. "Morn', master," said Mike, boisterously. "Couldn't yer get on without yer best man i' th' yard?" "Silence, sir!" cried Uncle Josiah, turning round, and glaring magisterially at the culprit. "Take yer hat off, can't yer?" cried Jem, knocking it off for him, and then picking it up and handing it. "Give man time, Jem Wimble," said Mike, with a grimace. "Want to pay me what you owes me, master?" "Hold your tongue, sir! And listen. Constable, a sum of money has been abstracted from my desk, and this man, who I believe was penniless two days ago, is now staying away from his work treating his friends." "Steady, master; on'y having a glass." "He was paying for ale with a guinea when I fetched him out, sir," said the constable. "Now, Mike, you're wanted for another ugly job, so you may as well clear yourself of this if you can." "What yer mean with your ugly job?" said the man, laughing. "You'll know soon enough; you and four more are in trouble. Now then, what money have you got on you?" "None 'tall." "Out with it." "Well, only two o' these. I did have three," grumbled the man, reluctantly taking out a couple of guineas from his pocket. "Looks bad, sir," said the constable. "Now then, where did you get them?" "What's that to you?" "Enough for Mr Christmas to charge you with robbing his desk, my lad; and this and what I've got against you will send you to Botany Bay." "What, me? Rob a good master? Not a penny." "What have you done with the rest?"<|quote|>continued the constable.</|quote|>"Never had no more, and wouldn't have had that if I'd knowed." "This will do, sir," said the constable. "You charge him here with stealing money from your desk?" "I am afraid I must," said Uncle Josiah. "What, me? Charge me?" cried the man, angrily. "Yes, Bannock, reluctantly; but it seems that you are the thief." "No: not me!" cried the man, fiercely. "It warn't me. It was him." Don started and turned pale, as the man stood pointing at him. "What do you mean?" cried Uncle Josiah. "Mean? Why, I ketched him a-helping hisself to the money, and he give me three guineas to hold my tongue." "What?" "And when I wouldn't take 'em he said if I didn't he'd say it was me; and that's the whole truth, and nothing else." "Lindon, what have you to say to this?" cried Uncle Josiah. Don thought of the guinea he had picked up, of his uncle's curious look when he gave it to him, and as he turned red and white with terror and dismay, mingled with confusion, he tried to speak, but try how he would, no words would come. CHAPTER FOUR. MIKE BANNOCK HAS A RIDE. "You wretch!" Those two words were a long time coming, but when they did escape from Lindon's lips, they made up in emphasis and force for their brevity. "Steady, Master Don, steady," said Jem, throwing his arms round the boy's waist, and holding him back. "You arn't strong enough to fight him." "Wretch? Oh! Well, I like that. Why, some men would ha' gone straight to your uncle here, and told him all about it; but I didn't, and I'd made up my mind to send him the money back, only I met two or three mates, and I had to change one of 'em to give the poor lads a drink o' ale." "You own, then, that you had my money, sir?" cried the old merchant. "Well--some on it, master. He give it me. S'pose I oughtn't to have took it, but I didn't like to come and tell you, and get the poor lad into trouble. He's so young, you see." "Uncle, it is not true!" cried Lindon, excitedly. "But you had one of the guineas in your pocket, sir." "Yes, uncle, but--" "Course he had," interrupted Mike sharply. "I | Don Lavington |
she observed, in a general way. | No speaker | back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle | "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, | of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, | moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared | tell us you re glad?" Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, | send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded: "Why don t you tell us you re glad?" Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, and sat down with an air of people making a very temporary lodgment. Either Mrs. Hilbery was impervious to their discomfort, or chose to ignore it, or thought it high time that the subject was changed, for she did nothing but talk about Shakespeare s tomb. "So much earth and so much water and that sublime spirit brooding over it all," she mused, and went on to sing her strange, half-earthly song of dawns and sunsets, of great poets, and the unchanged spirit of noble loving which they had taught, so that nothing changes, and one age is linked with another, and no one dies, and we all meet in spirit, until she appeared oblivious of any one in the room. But suddenly her remarks seemed to contract the enormously wide circle in which they were soaring and to alight, airily and temporarily, upon matters of more immediate moment. "Katharine and Ralph," she said, as if to try the sound. "William and Cassandra." "I feel myself in an entirely false position," said William desperately, thrusting himself into this breach in her reflections. "I ve no right to be sitting here. Mr. Hilbery told me yesterday to leave the house. I | aspect of life that soft edge of fire which gave its red tint to the atmosphere and crowded the scene with shadows so deep and dark that one could fancy pushing farther into their density and still farther, exploring indefinitely. Whether there was any correspondence between the two prospects now opening before them they shared the same sense of the impending future, vast, mysterious, infinitely stored with undeveloped shapes which each would unwrap for the other to behold; but for the present the prospect of the future was enough to fill them with silent adoration. At any rate, their further attempts to communicate articulately were interrupted by a knock on the door, and the entrance of a maid who, with a due sense of mystery, announced that a lady wished to see Miss Hilbery, but refused to allow her name to be given. When Katharine rose, with a profound sigh, to resume her duties, Ralph went with her, and neither of them formulated any guess, on their way downstairs, as to who this anonymous lady might prove to be. Perhaps the fantastic notion that she was a little black hunchback provided with a steel knife, which she would plunge into Katharine s heart, appeared to Ralph more probable than another, and he pushed first into the dining-room to avert the blow. Then he exclaimed "Cassandra!" with such heartiness at the sight of Cassandra Otway standing by the dining-room table that she put her finger to her lips and begged him to be quiet. "Nobody must know I m here," she explained in a sepulchral whisper. "I missed my train. I have been wandering about London all day. I can bear it no longer. Katharine, what am I to do?" Katharine pushed forward a chair; Ralph hastily found wine and poured it out for her. If not actually fainting, she was very near it. "William s upstairs," said Ralph, as soon as she appeared to be recovered. "I ll go and ask him to come down to you." His own happiness had given him a confidence that every one else was bound to be happy too. But Cassandra had her uncle s commands and anger too vividly in her mind to dare any such defiance. She became agitated and said that she must leave the house at once. She was not in a condition to go, had they known where to send her. Katharine s common sense, which had been in abeyance for the past week or two, still failed her, and she could only ask, "But where s your luggage?" in the vague belief that to take lodgings depended entirely upon a sufficiency of luggage. Cassandra s reply, "I ve lost my luggage," in no way helped her to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded: "Why don t you tell us you re glad?" Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, and sat down with an air of people making a very temporary lodgment. Either Mrs. Hilbery was impervious to their discomfort, or chose to ignore it, or thought it high time that the subject was changed, for she did nothing but talk about Shakespeare s tomb. "So much earth and so much water and that sublime spirit brooding over it all," she mused, and went on to sing her strange, half-earthly song of dawns and sunsets, of great poets, and the unchanged spirit of noble loving which they had taught, so that nothing changes, and one age is linked with another, and no one dies, and we all meet in spirit, until she appeared oblivious of any one in the room. But suddenly her remarks seemed to contract the enormously wide circle in which they were soaring and to alight, airily and temporarily, upon matters of more immediate moment. "Katharine and Ralph," she said, as if to try the sound. "William and Cassandra." "I feel myself in an entirely false position," said William desperately, thrusting himself into this breach in her reflections. "I ve no right to be sitting here. Mr. Hilbery told me yesterday to leave the house. I d no intention of coming back again. I shall now" "I feel the same too," Cassandra interrupted. "After what Uncle Trevor said to me last night" "I have put you into a most odious position," Rodney went on, rising from his seat, in which movement he was imitated simultaneously by Cassandra. "Until I have your father s consent I have no right to speak to you let alone in this house, where my conduct" he looked at Katharine, stammered, and fell silent "where my conduct has been reprehensible and inexcusable in the extreme," he forced himself to continue. "I have explained everything to your mother. She is so generous as to try and make me believe that I have done no harm you have convinced her that my behavior, selfish and weak as it was selfish and weak" he repeated, like a speaker who has lost his notes. Two emotions seemed to be struggling in Katharine; one the desire to laugh at the ridiculous spectacle of William making her a formal speech across the tea-table, the other a desire to weep at the sight of something childlike and honest in him which touched her inexpressibly. To every one s surprise she rose, stretched out her hand, and said: "You ve nothing to reproach yourself with you ve been always" but here her voice died away, and the tears forced themselves into her eyes, and ran down her cheeks, while William, equally moved, seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. No one perceived that the drawing-room door had opened itself sufficiently to admit at least half the person of Mr. Hilbery, or saw him gaze at the scene round the tea-table with an expression of the utmost disgust and expostulation. He withdrew unseen. He paused outside on the landing trying to recover his self-control and to decide what course he might with most dignity pursue. It was obvious to him that his wife had entirely confused the meaning of his instructions. She had plunged them all into the most odious confusion. He waited a moment, and then, with much preliminary rattling of the handle, opened the door a second time. They had all regained their places; some incident of an absurd nature had now set them laughing and looking under the table, so that his entrance passed momentarily unperceived. Katharine, with flushed cheeks, raised her head and said: "Well, | to a conclusion. "You ve lost your luggage," she repeated. Her eyes rested upon Ralph, with an expression which seemed better fitted to accompany a profound thanksgiving for his existence or some vow of eternal devotion than a question about luggage. Cassandra perceived the look, and saw that it was returned; her eyes filled with tears. She faltered in what she was saying. She began bravely again to discuss the question of lodging when Katharine, who seemed to have communicated silently with Ralph, and obtained his permission, took her ruby ring from her finger and giving it to Cassandra, said: "I believe it will fit you without any alteration." These words would not have been enough to convince Cassandra of what she very much wished to believe had not Ralph taken the bare hand in his and demanded: "Why don t you tell us you re glad?" Cassandra was so glad that the tears ran down her cheeks. The certainty of Katharine s engagement not only relieved her of a thousand vague fears and self-reproaches, but entirely quenched that spirit of criticism which had lately impaired her belief in Katharine. Her old faith came back to her. She seemed to behold her with that curious intensity which she had lost; as a being who walks just beyond our sphere, so that life in their presence is a heightened process, illuminating not only ourselves but a considerable stretch of the surrounding world. Next moment she contrasted her own lot with theirs and gave back the ring. "I won t take that unless William gives it me himself," she said. "Keep it for me, Katharine." "I assure you everything s perfectly all right," said Ralph. "Let me tell William" He was about, in spite of Cassandra s protest, to reach the door, when Mrs. Hilbery, either warned by the parlor-maid or conscious with her usual prescience of the need for her intervention, opened the door and smilingly surveyed them. "My dear Cassandra!" she exclaimed. "How delightful to see you back again! What a coincidence!"<|quote|>she observed, in a general way.</|quote|>"William is upstairs. The kettle boils over. Where s Katharine, I say? I go to look, and I find Cassandra!" She seemed to have proved something to her own satisfaction, although nobody felt certain what thing precisely it was. "I find Cassandra," she repeated. "She missed her train," Katharine interposed, seeing that Cassandra was unable to speak. "Life," began Mrs. Hilbery, drawing inspiration from the portraits on the wall apparently, "consists in missing trains and in finding" But she pulled herself up and remarked that the kettle must have boiled completely over everything. To Katharine s agitated mind it appeared that this kettle was an enormous kettle, capable of deluging the house in its incessant showers of steam, the enraged representative of all those household duties which she had neglected. She ran hastily up to the drawing-room, and the rest followed her, for Mrs. Hilbery put her arm round Cassandra and drew her upstairs. They found Rodney observing the kettle with uneasiness but with such absence of mind that Katharine s catastrophe was in a fair way to be fulfilled. In putting the matter straight no greetings were exchanged, but Rodney and Cassandra chose seats as far apart as possible, and sat down with an air of people making a very temporary lodgment. Either Mrs. Hilbery was impervious to their discomfort, or chose to ignore it, or thought it high time that the subject was changed, for she did nothing but talk about Shakespeare s tomb. "So much earth and so much water and that sublime spirit brooding over it all," she mused, and went on to sing her strange, half-earthly song of dawns and sunsets, of great poets, and the unchanged spirit of noble loving which they had taught, so that nothing changes, and one age is linked with another, and no one dies, and we all meet in spirit, until she appeared oblivious of any one in the room. But suddenly her remarks seemed to contract the enormously wide circle in which they were soaring and to alight, airily and temporarily, upon matters of more immediate moment. "Katharine and Ralph," she said, as if to try the sound. "William and Cassandra." "I feel myself in an entirely false position," said William desperately, thrusting himself into this breach in her reflections. "I ve no right to be sitting here. Mr. Hilbery told me yesterday to leave the house. I d no intention of coming back again. I shall now" "I feel the same too," Cassandra interrupted. "After what Uncle Trevor said to me last night" "I have put you into a most odious position," Rodney went on, rising from his seat, in which movement he was imitated simultaneously by Cassandra. "Until I have your father s consent I have no right to speak to you let alone in this house, where my conduct" he looked at Katharine, stammered, and fell silent "where my conduct has been reprehensible and inexcusable in the extreme," he forced himself to continue. "I have explained everything to your mother. She is so generous as to try and make me believe that I have done no harm you have convinced her | Night And Day |
"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!" | Ben | guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. | with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate | straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring | posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. | been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back | Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand | his pipe. "I don't believe you're listening. Why doesn't Sylvia want Rupert to get the letter?" "Eh? Oh well, you see, she doesn't really trust Rupert." "I _knew_ it. There's no such character as Rupert in the story. I shall never read to you again." "Well, to tell you the truth I was just thinking." "Oh." "I was thinking how delightful it is, that it's Saturday morning and we haven't got anyone coming for the week-end." "Oh, you thought that?" "Don't you?" "Well, it sometimes seems to me rather pointless keeping up a house this size if we don't now and then ask some other people to stay in it." "_Pointless?_ I can't think what you mean. I don't keep up this house to be a hostel for a lot of bores to come and gossip in. We've always lived here and I hope John will be able to keep it on after me. One has a duty towards one's employees, and towards the place too. It's a definite part of English life which would be a serious loss if..." Then Tony stopped short in his speech and looked at the bed. Brenda had turned on her face and only the top of her head appeared above the sheets. "Oh God," she said into the pillow. "What have I done?" "I say, am I being pompous again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * * * * * Brenda was doing her face. "It's been the same ever since Ben Hacket started teaching him to ride, my lady, there's been no doing anything with him." Brenda spat in the eye-black. "But, nanny, what exactly did he say?" "Oh, I couldn't repeat it, my lady." "Nonsense, you must tell me. Otherwise I shall be thinking it something far worse than it was." "It couldn't have been worse... he called me a silly old tart, my lady." Brenda choked slightly into her face towel. "He said _that_?" "Repeatedly. He danced in front of me all the way up the drive, _singing it_." "I see... well, you were quite right to tell me." "Thank you, my lady, and since we are talking about it I think I ought to say that it seems to me that Ben Hacket is making the child go ahead far too quickly with his riding. It's very dangerous. He had what might have been a serious fall this morning." "All right, nanny, I'll speak to Mr Last about it." She spoke to Tony. They both laughed about it a great deal. "Darling," she said, "_you_ must speak to him. You're so much better at being serious than I am." * * * * * "I should have thought it was very nice to be called a tart," John argued, "and anyway it's a word Ben often uses about people." "Well, he's got no business to." "I like Ben more than anyone in the world. And I should think he's cleverer too." "Now, you know you don't like him more than your mother." "Yes I do. _Far_ more." Tony felt that the time had come to cut out the cross talk and deliver the homily he had been preparing. "Now listen, John. It was very wrong of you to call nanny a silly old tart. First, because it was unkind to her. Think of all the | again?" She turned sideways so that her nose and one eye emerged. "Oh no, darling, not _pompous_. You wouldn't know how." "Sorry." Brenda sat up. "And, please, I didn't mean it. I'm jolly glad too, that no one's coming." (These scenes of domestic playfulness had been more or less continuous in Tony and Brenda's life for seven years.) Outside, it was soft English weather; mist in the hollows and pale sunshine on the hills; the coverts had ceased dripping, for there were no leaves to hold the recent rain, but the undergrowth was wet, dark in the shadows, iridescent where the sun caught it; the lanes were soggy and there was water running in the ditches. John Andrew sat his pony, solemn and stiff as a Lifeguard, while Ben fixed the jump. Thunderclap had been a present on his sixth birthday from Uncle Reggie. It was John who had named her, after lengthy consultation. Originally she had been called Christabelle which, as Ben said, was more the name for a hound than a horse. Ben had known a strawberry roan called Thunderclap who killed two riders and won the local point-to-point four years running. He had been a lovely little horse, said Ben, till he staked himself in the guts, hunting, and had to be shot. Ben knew stories about a great many different horses. There was one called Zero on whom he had won five Jimmy-o-goblins at ten to three at Chester one year. And there was a mule he had known during the war, called Peppermint, who had died of drinking the company's rum ration. But John was not going to name his pony after a drunken mule. So in the end they had decided on Thunderclap, in spite of her imperturbable disposition. She was a dark bay, with long tail and mane. Ben had left her legs shaggy. She cropped the grass, resisting John's attempts to keep her head up. Before her arrival riding had been a very different thing. He had jogged round the paddock on a little Shetland pony called Bunny, with his nurse panting at the bridle. Now it was a man's business. Nanny sat at a distance, crocheting, on her camp stool; out of earshot. There had been a corresponding promotion in Ben's position. From being the hand who looked after the farm horses, he was now, perceptibly, assuming the air of a stud groom. The handkerchief round his neck gave place to a stock with a fox-head pin. He was a man of varied experience in other parts of the country. Neither Tony nor Brenda hunted but they were anxious that John should like it. Ben foresaw the time when the stables would be full and himself in authority; it would not be like Mr Last to get anyone in from outside. Ben had got two posts bored for iron pegs, and a white-washed rail. With these he erected a two-foot jump in the middle of the field. "Now take it quite easy. Canter up slow and when she takes off lean forward in the saddle and you'll be over like a bird. Keep her head straight at it." Thunderclap trotted forwards, cantered two paces, thought better of it and, just before the jump, fell into a trot again and swerved round the obstacle. John recovered his balance by dropping the reins and gripping the mane with both hands; he looked guiltily at Ben, who said,<|quote|>"What d'you suppose your bloody legs are for? Here, take this and just give her a tap when you get up to it!"</|quote|>He handed John a switch. Nanny sat by the gate re-reading a letter from her sister. John took Thunderclap back and tried the jump again. This time they made straight for the rail. Ben shouted "Legs!" and John kicked sturdily, losing his stirrups. Ben raised his arms as if scaring crows. Thunderclap jumped; John rose from the saddle and landed on his back in the grass. Nanny rose in alarm. "Oh, what's happened, Mr Hacket, is he hurt?" "He's all right," said Ben. "I'm all right," said John, "I think she put in a short step." "Short step my grandmother. You just opened your bloody legs and took an arser. Keep hold on to the reins next time. You can lose a hunt that way." At the third attempt John got over and found himself breathless and insecure, one stirrup swinging loose and one hand grabbing its old support in the mane, but still in the saddle. "There, how did that feel? You just skimmed over like a swallow. Try it again?" Twice more John and Thunderclap went over the little rail, then nanny called that it was time to go indoors for his milk. They walked the pony back to the stable. Nanny said, "Oh dear, look at all the mud on your coat." Ben said, "We'll have you riding the winner at Aintree soon." "Good morning, Mr Hacket." "Good morning, miss." "Good-bye, Ben, may I come and see you doing the farm horses this evening?" "That's not for me to say. You must ask nanny. Tell you what though, the grey carthorse has got worms. Would you like to see me give him a pill?" "Oh yes; please, nanny, may I?" "You must ask mother. Come along now, you've had quite enough of horses for one day." "Can't have enough of horses," said John, "ever." On the way back to the house he said, "Can I have my milk in mummy's room?" "That depends." Nanny's replies were always evasive, like that--" "We'll see" or "That's asking" or "Those that ask no questions hear no lies" "--altogether unlike Ben's decisive and pungent judgments. "What does it depend on?" "Lots of things." "Tell me one of them." "On your not asking a lot of silly questions." "Silly old tart." "_John!_ How dare you? What do you mean?" Delighted by the effect of this sally, John broke away from her hand and danced in front of her, saying, "Silly old tart, silly old tart" all the way to the side entrance. When they entered the porch his nurse silently took off his leggings; he was sobered a little by her grimness. "Go straight up to the nursery," she said. "I am going to speak to your mother about you." "Please, nanny. I don't know what it means, but I didn't mean it." "Go straight to the nursery." * | A Handful Of Dust |
"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." | Edward Ferrars | as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come | ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a | burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has | from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt | being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another s. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy s letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He | it to Edward. "_That_ was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And _that_," he presently added, "might perhaps be in _his_ head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise." How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor s hands. "DEAR SIR, "Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another s. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy s letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till | former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor s company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. Lucy s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; and Elinor s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration, a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle. Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother s affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward. "_That_ was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And _that_," he presently added, "might perhaps be in _his_ head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise." How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor s hands. "DEAR SIR, "Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another s. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy s letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother s anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him. "I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living." "No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry _you_ than be single." Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy s conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. "Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be." He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of | procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise." How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor s hands. "DEAR SIR, "Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another s. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain, "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister, "LUCY FERRARS. "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Elinor read and returned it without any comment. "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.<|quote|>"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."</|quote|>"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert s marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her." "She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy s letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it | Sense And Sensibility |
"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?" | Rachel Lynde | such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me | ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. | his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde | White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde | over at Carmody, you know." "I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike | and relief. "I declare I'm getting glad to sit down. I've been on my feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit for two feet to carry round. It's a great blessing not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of going to college. I was real glad to hear it. You've got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense." "But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm going to take my Arts course right here at Green Gables, and study everything that I would at college." Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror. "Anne Shirley, you'll kill yourself." "Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm not going to overdo things. As ?Josiah Allen's wife,' says, I shall be ?mejum'. But I'll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach over at Carmody, you know." "I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good | for a week. I shall give life here my best, and I believe it will give its best to me in return. When I left Queen's my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla. I wonder how the road beyond it goes--what there is of green glory and soft, checkered light and shadows--what new landscapes--what new beauties--what curves and hills and valleys further on." "I don't feel as if I ought to let you give it up," said Marilla, referring to the scholarship. "But you can't prevent me. I'm sixteen and a half," ?obstinate as a mule,' "as Mrs. Lynde once told me," laughed Anne. "Oh, Marilla, don't you go pitying me. I don't like to be pitied, and there is no need for it. I'm heart glad over the very thought of staying at dear Green Gables. Nobody could love it as you and I do--so we must keep it." "You blessed girl!" said Marilla, yielding. "I feel as if you'd given me new life. I guess I ought to stick out and make you go to college--but I know I can't, so I ain't going to try. I'll make it up to you though, Anne." When it became noised abroad in Avonlea that Anne Shirley had given up the idea of going to college and intended to stay home and teach there was a good deal of discussion over it. Most of the good folks, not knowing about Marilla's eyes, thought she was foolish. Mrs. Allan did not. She told Anne so in approving words that brought tears of pleasure to the girl's eyes. Neither did good Mrs. Lynde. She came up one evening and found Anne and Marilla sitting at the front door in the warm, scented summer dusk. They liked to sit there when the twilight came down and the white moths flew about in the garden and the odor of mint filled the dewy air. Mrs. Rachel deposited her substantial person upon the stone bench by the door, behind which grew a row of tall pink and yellow hollyhocks, with a long breath of mingled weariness and relief. "I declare I'm getting glad to sit down. I've been on my feet all day, and two hundred pounds is a good bit for two feet to carry round. It's a great blessing not to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of going to college. I was real glad to hear it. You've got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense." "But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm going to take my Arts course right here at Green Gables, and study everything that I would at college." Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror. "Anne Shirley, you'll kill yourself." "Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm not going to overdo things. As ?Josiah Allen's wife,' says, I shall be ?mejum'. But I'll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach over at Carmody, you know." "I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile. "We haven't been--we've been good enemies. But we have decided that it will be much more sensible to be good friends in the future. Were we really there half an hour? It seemed just a few minutes. But, you see, we have five years' lost conversations to catch up with, Marilla." Anne sat long at her window that night companioned by a glad content. The wind purred softly in the cherry boughs, and the mint breaths came up to her. The stars twinkled over the pointed firs in the hollow and Diana's light gleamed through the old gap. Anne's horizons had closed in since the night she had sat there after coming home from Queen's; but if the path set before her feet was to be narrow she knew that flowers of quiet happiness would bloom along it. The joy of sincere work and worthy aspiration and congenial friendship were to be hers; nothing could rob her of her birthright of fancy or her ideal world of dreams. And there was always the bend in the road! "?God's in his heaven, all's right with the world,'" whispered Anne softly. | to be fat, Marilla. I hope you appreciate it. Well, Anne, I hear you've given up your notion of going to college. I was real glad to hear it. You've got as much education now as a woman can be comfortable with. I don't believe in girls going to college with the men and cramming their heads full of Latin and Greek and all that nonsense." "But I'm going to study Latin and Greek just the same, Mrs. Lynde," said Anne laughing. "I'm going to take my Arts course right here at Green Gables, and study everything that I would at college." Mrs. Lynde lifted her hands in holy horror. "Anne Shirley, you'll kill yourself." "Not a bit of it. I shall thrive on it. Oh, I'm not going to overdo things. As ?Josiah Allen's wife,' says, I shall be ?mejum'. But I'll have lots of spare time in the long winter evenings, and I've no vocation for fancy work. I'm going to teach over at Carmody, you know." "I don't know it. I guess you're going to teach right here in Avonlea. The trustees have decided to give you the school." "Mrs. Lynde!" cried Anne, springing to her feet in her surprise. "Why, I thought they had promised it to Gilbert Blythe!" "So they did. But as soon as Gilbert heard that you had applied for it he went to them--they had a business meeting at the school last night, you know--and told them that he withdrew his application, and suggested that they accept yours. He said he was going to teach at White Sands. Of course he knew how much you wanted to stay with Marilla, and I must say I think it was real kind and thoughtful in him, that's what. Real self-sacrificing, too, for he'll have his board to pay at White Sands, and everybody knows he's got to earn his own way through college. So the trustees decided to take you. I was tickled to death when Thomas came home and told me." "I don't feel that I ought to take it," murmured Anne. "I mean--I don't think I ought to let Gilbert make such a sacrifice for--for me."<|quote|>"I guess you can't prevent him now. He's signed papers with the White Sands trustees. So it wouldn't do him any good now if you were to refuse. Of course you'll take the school. You'll get along all right, now that there are no Pyes going. Josie was the last of them, and a good thing she was, that's what. There's been some Pye or other going to Avonlea school for the last twenty years, and I guess their mission in life was to keep school teachers reminded that earth isn't their home. Bless my heart! What does all that winking and blinking at the Barry gable mean?"</|quote|>"Diana is signaling for me to go over," laughed Anne. "You know we keep up the old custom. Excuse me while I run over and see what she wants." Anne ran down the clover slope like a deer, and disappeared in the firry shadows of the Haunted Wood. Mrs. Lynde looked after her indulgently. "There's a good deal of the child about her yet in some ways." "There's a good deal more of the woman about her in others," retorted Marilla, with a momentary return of her old crispness. But crispness was no longer Marilla's distinguishing characteristic. As Mrs. Lynde told her Thomas that night. "Marilla Cuthbert has got _mellow_. That's what." Anne went to the little Avonlea graveyard the next evening to put fresh flowers on Matthew's grave and water the Scotch rosebush. She lingered there until dusk, liking the peace and calm of the little place, with its poplars whose rustle was like low, friendly speech, and its whispering grasses growing at will among the graves. When she finally left it and walked down the long hill that sloped to the Lake of Shining Waters it was past sunset and all Avonlea lay before her in a dreamlike afterlight--"a haunt of ancient peace." There was a freshness in the air as of a wind that had blown over honey-sweet fields of clover. Home lights twinkled out here and there among the homestead trees. Beyond lay the sea, misty and purple, with its haunting, unceasing murmur. The west was a glory of soft mingled hues, and the pond reflected them all in still softer shadings. The beauty of it all thrilled Anne's heart, and she gratefully opened the gates of her soul to it. "Dear old world," she murmured, "you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you." Halfway down the hill a tall lad came whistling out of a gate before the Blythe homestead. It was Gilbert, and the whistle died on his lips as he recognized Anne. He lifted his cap courteously, but he would have passed on in silence, if Anne had not stopped and held out her hand. "Gilbert," she said, with scarlet cheeks, "I want to thank you for giving up the school for me. It was very good of you--and I want you to know that I appreciate it." Gilbert took the offered hand eagerly. "It wasn't particularly good of me at all, Anne. I was pleased to be able to do you some small service. Are we going to be friends after this? Have you really forgiven me my old fault?" Anne laughed and tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand. "I forgave you that day by the pond landing, although I didn't know it. What a stubborn little goose I was. I've been--I may as well make a complete confession--I've been sorry ever since." "We are going to be the best of friends," said Gilbert, jubilantly. "We were born to be good friends, Anne. You've thwarted destiny enough. I know we can help each other in many ways. You are going to keep up your studies, aren't you? So am I. Come, I'm going to walk home with you." Marilla looked curiously at Anne when the latter entered the kitchen. "Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," | Anne Of Green Gables |
"The term you use," | Mr. Brownlow | "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is | heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long | upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. | we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he | and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that | way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic. Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery to be explained one day prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed | smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. "You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one," said Oliver. "It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again I know that too to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said God bless you' to me when I ran away," cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; "and I will say God bless you' now, and show him how I love him for it!" As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected there was Gamfield's cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream. But it was pure, earnest, joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic. Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their journey down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery to be explained one day prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I believe he had." "The will," said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast. Monks was silent. "The will," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, "was in the same spirit as the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction only strengthened by approaching death that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion." "My mother," said Monks, in a louder tone, "did what a woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl's father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate I love her for it now could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every | with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. "This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why." "Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here." "This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth." "Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy: the beating of whose heart he might have heard. "That is the bastard child."<|quote|>"The term you use,"</|quote|>said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, "is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was born in this town." "In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke. "I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. "Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself" "; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will." "What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "The letter? A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery to be explained one day prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and | Oliver Twist |
"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling." | Mr. Beebe | the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern | to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That | breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss | charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, | how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. | She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind." "I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful." "Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. It's all--I can't explain--it's wrong." Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again. "I can't see the point of it myself." To his astonishment, she replied: "There I cannot agree with you. In it I spy Lucy's salvation." "Really. Now, why?" "She wanted to leave Windy Corner." "I know--but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so--I was going to say--selfish." "It is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she should desire a change." Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: "So she says herself, and since another lady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters or--and I don't understand these things. But why need she go as far as Greece?" "You may well ask that," replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidently interested, and had almost dropped her evasive manner. "Why Greece? (What is it, Minnie dear--jam?) Why not Tunbridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! I had a long and most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have | business," he said gently. "No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed; only--I had better tell you the whole truth, since you have heard a little--it was that he is so masterful. I found that he wouldn't let me go my own way. He would improve me in places where I can't be improved. Cecil won't let a woman decide for herself--in fact, he daren't. What nonsense I do talk! But that is the kind of thing." "It is what I gathered from my own observation of Mr. Vyse; it is what I gather from all that I have known of you. I do sympathize and agree most profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me make one little criticism: Is it worth while rushing off to Greece?" "But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have been worrying all the morning, and here comes the very thing." She struck her knees with clenched fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time I shall have with mother, and all the money she spent on me last spring. You all think much too highly of me. I wish you weren't so kind." At this moment Miss Bartlett entered, and her nervousness increased. "I must get away, ever so far. I must know my own mind and where I want to go." "Come along; tea, tea, tea," said Mr. Beebe, and bustled his guests out of the front-door. He hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When he returned for it he heard, to his relief and surprise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. "She is playing again," he said to Miss Bartlett. "Lucy can always play," was the acid reply. "One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could wind herself up to speak." Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind." "I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful." "Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. It's all--I can't explain--it's wrong." Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again. "I can't see the point of it myself." To his astonishment, she replied: "There I cannot agree with you. In it I spy Lucy's salvation." "Really. Now, why?" "She wanted to leave Windy Corner." "I know--but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so--I was going to say--selfish." "It is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she should desire a change." Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: "So she says herself, and since another lady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters or--and I don't understand these things. But why need she go as far as Greece?" "You may well ask that," replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidently interested, and had almost dropped her evasive manner. "Why Greece? (What is it, Minnie dear--jam?) Why not Tunbridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! I had a long and most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have already said too much. I am not to talk. I wanted her to spend six months with me at Tunbridge Wells, and she refused." Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife. "But my feelings are of no importance. I know too well that I get on Lucy's nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, and when we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, and all the time I felt that I was spending her mother's money--." "Let us keep to the future, though," interrupted Mr. Beebe. "I want your advice." "Very well," said Charlotte, with a choky abruptness that was new to him, though familiar to Lucy. "I for one will help her to go to Greece. Will you?" Mr. Beebe considered. "It is absolutely necessary," she continued, lowering her veil and whispering through it with a passion, an intensity, that surprised him. "I know--I know." The darkness was coming on, and he felt that this odd woman really did know. "She must not stop here a moment, and we must keep quiet till she goes. I trust that the servants know nothing. Afterwards--but I may have said too much already. Only, Lucy and I are helpless against Mrs. Honeychurch alone. If you help we may succeed. Otherwise--" "Otherwise--?" "Otherwise," she repeated as if the word held finality. "Yes, I will help her," said the clergyman, setting his jaw firm. "Come, let us go back now, and settle the whole thing up." Miss Bartlett burst into florid gratitude. The tavern sign--a beehive trimmed evenly with bees--creaked in the wind outside as she thanked him. Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the situation; but then, he did not desire to understand it, nor to jump to the conclusion of "another man" that would have attracted a grosser mind. He only felt that Miss Bartlett knew of some vague influence from which the girl desired to be delivered, and which might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its very vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His belief in celibacy, so reticent, so carefully concealed beneath his tolerance and culture, now came to the surface and expanded like some delicate flower. "They that marry do well, but they that refrain do better." So ran his belief, and he never heard that an engagement was broken off but with a slight feeling of | will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said:<|quote|>"We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling."</|quote|>They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. It's all--I can't explain--it's wrong." Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again. "I can't see the point of it myself." To his astonishment, she replied: "There I cannot agree with you. In it I spy Lucy's salvation." "Really. Now, why?" "She wanted to leave Windy Corner." "I know--but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so--I was going to say--selfish." "It is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she should desire a change." Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: "So she says herself, and since another lady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters or--and I don't understand these things. But why need she go as far as Greece?" "You may well ask that," replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidently interested, and had almost dropped her evasive manner. "Why Greece? (What is it, Minnie dear--jam?) Why not Tunbridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! I had a long and most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have already said too much. I am not to talk. I wanted her to spend six months with me at Tunbridge Wells, and she refused." Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife. "But my feelings are of no importance. I know too well that I get on Lucy's nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, and when we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, and all the time I felt that I was spending her mother's money--." "Let us keep to the future, though," interrupted Mr. Beebe. "I want your advice." "Very well," said Charlotte, with a choky abruptness that was new to him, though familiar to Lucy. "I for one will help her to go to Greece. Will you?" Mr. Beebe considered. "It is absolutely necessary," she continued, lowering her veil and whispering through it with a passion, an intensity, that surprised | A Room With A View |
"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." | Hercule Poirot | you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety | me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This | to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is | I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not | and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she | a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those | attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought | little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?"<|quote|>"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."</|quote|>"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." | Mrs. Vane | not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I | picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know | t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? | the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last | and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he | with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a solicitor s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don t let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her." "James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl." "I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to talk to her. Is that right? | girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried, "why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?" The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a solicitor s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "I hate offices, and I hate clerks," he replied. "But you are quite right. I have chosen my own life. All I say is, watch over Sibyl. Don t let her come to any harm. Mother, you must watch over her." "James, you really talk very strangely. Of course I watch over Sibyl." "I hear a gentleman comes every night to the theatre and goes behind to talk to her. Is that right? What about that?" "You are speaking about things you don t understand, James. In the profession we are accustomed to receive a great deal of most gratifying attention. I myself used to receive many bouquets at one time. That was when acting was really understood. As for Sibyl, I do not know at present whether her attachment is serious or not. But there is no doubt that the young man in question is a perfect gentleman. He is always most polite to me. Besides, he has the appearance of being rich, and the flowers he sends are lovely." "You don t know his name, though," said the lad harshly. "No," answered his mother with a placid expression in her face. "He has not yet revealed his real name. I think it is quite romantic of him. He is probably a member of the aristocracy." James Vane bit his lip. "Watch over Sibyl, Mother," he cried, "watch over her." "My son, you distress me very much. Sibyl is always under my special care. Of course, if this gentleman is wealthy, there is no reason why she should not contract an alliance with him. I trust he is one of the aristocracy. He has all the appearance of it, I must say. It might be a most brilliant marriage for Sibyl. They would make a charming couple. His good looks are really quite remarkable; everybody notices them." The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when the door opened and Sibyl ran in. "How serious you both are!" she cried. "What is the matter?" "Nothing," he answered. "I suppose one must be serious sometimes. Good-bye, Mother; I will have my dinner at five o clock. Everything is packed, except my shirts, so you need not trouble." "Good-bye, my son," she answered with a bow of strained stateliness. She was extremely annoyed at the tone he had adopted with her, and there was something in his look that had made her feel afraid. "Kiss me, Mother," said the girl. Her flowerlike lips touched the withered cheek and warmed its frost. "My child! my child!" cried Mrs. Vane, looking up to the ceiling in search of an imaginary gallery. "Come, Sibyl," said her brother impatiently. He hated his mother s affectations. They went out into the flickering, wind-blown sunlight | hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it."<|quote|>"You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London."</|quote|>"Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
said Fedosya Vassilyevna, | No speaker | say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for | place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, | go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost | for my kindness...." They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips. "_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!" Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, | filled with tears. "Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mamikov, her household doctor, observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as honeyed. "We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch! Health is worth more than two thousand roubles!" "It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. "It's the fact itself that revolts me! I cannot put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it--I regret nothing; but to steal from me is such ingratitude! That's how they repay me for my kindness...." They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips. "_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!" Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull-witted, prosperous woman. Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, | her heart, and deep down in her stomach. "Dinner is ready," the servant summoned Mashenka. "Shall I go, or not?" Mashenka brushed her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went into the dining-room. There they had already begun dinner. At one end of the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna with a stupid, solemn, serious face; at the other end Nikolay Sergeitch. At the sides there were the visitors and the children. The dishes were handed by two footmen in swallowtails and white gloves. Every one knew that there was an upset in the house, that Madame Kushkin was in trouble, and every one was silent. Nothing was heard but the sound of munching and the rattle of spoons on the plates. The lady of the house, herself, was the first to speak. "What is the third course?" she asked the footman in a weary, injured voice. "_Esturgeon à la russe_," answered the footman. "I ordered that, Fenya," Nikolay Sergeitch hastened to observe. "I wanted some fish. If you don't like it, _ma chère_, don't let them serve it. I just ordered it...." Fedosya Vassilyevna did not like dishes that she had not ordered herself, and now her eyes filled with tears. "Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mamikov, her household doctor, observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as honeyed. "We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch! Health is worth more than two thousand roubles!" "It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. "It's the fact itself that revolts me! I cannot put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it--I regret nothing; but to steal from me is such ingratitude! That's how they repay me for my kindness...." They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips. "_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!" Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull-witted, prosperous woman. Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms! Oh, if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage, and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that woman! But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing left to do--to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another hour in this place. It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do? Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here. She was so disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing. "May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice. "May I?" "Come in." He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim | hands. She even searched Mihailo, the porter, herself. It's a perfect disgrace! Nikolay Sergeitch simply looks on and cackles like a hen. But you've no need to tremble like that, miss. They found nothing here. You've nothing to be afraid of if you didn't take the brooch." "But, Liza, it's vile ... it's insulting," said Mashenka, breathless with indignation. "It's so mean, so low! What right had she to suspect me and to rummage in my things?" "You are living with strangers, miss," sighed Liza. "Though you are a young lady, still you are ... as it were ... a servant.... It's not like living with your papa and mamma." Mashenka threw herself on the bed and sobbed bitterly. Never in her life had she been subjected to such an outrage, never had she been so deeply insulted.... She, well-educated, refined, the daughter of a teacher, was suspected of theft; she had been searched like a street-walker! She could not imagine a greater insult. And to this feeling of resentment was added an oppressive dread of what would come next. All sorts of absurd ideas came into her mind. If they could suspect her of theft, then they might arrest her, strip her naked, and search her, then lead her through the street with an escort of soldiers, cast her into a cold, dark cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the dungeon in which Princess Tarakanov was imprisoned. Who would stand up for her? Her parents lived far away in the provinces; they had not the money to come to her. In the capital she was as solitary as in a desert, without friends or kindred. They could do what they liked with her. "I will go to all the courts and all the lawyers," Mashenka thought, trembling. "I will explain to them, I will take an oath.... They will believe that I could not be a thief!" Mashenka remembered that under the sheets in her basket she had some sweetmeats, which, following the habits of her schooldays, she had put in her pocket at dinner and carried off to her room. She felt hot all over, and was ashamed at the thought that her little secret was known to the lady of the house; and all this terror, shame, resentment, brought on an attack of palpitation of the heart, which set up a throbbing in her temples, in her heart, and deep down in her stomach. "Dinner is ready," the servant summoned Mashenka. "Shall I go, or not?" Mashenka brushed her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went into the dining-room. There they had already begun dinner. At one end of the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna with a stupid, solemn, serious face; at the other end Nikolay Sergeitch. At the sides there were the visitors and the children. The dishes were handed by two footmen in swallowtails and white gloves. Every one knew that there was an upset in the house, that Madame Kushkin was in trouble, and every one was silent. Nothing was heard but the sound of munching and the rattle of spoons on the plates. The lady of the house, herself, was the first to speak. "What is the third course?" she asked the footman in a weary, injured voice. "_Esturgeon à la russe_," answered the footman. "I ordered that, Fenya," Nikolay Sergeitch hastened to observe. "I wanted some fish. If you don't like it, _ma chère_, don't let them serve it. I just ordered it...." Fedosya Vassilyevna did not like dishes that she had not ordered herself, and now her eyes filled with tears. "Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mamikov, her household doctor, observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as honeyed. "We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch! Health is worth more than two thousand roubles!" "It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. "It's the fact itself that revolts me! I cannot put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it--I regret nothing; but to steal from me is such ingratitude! That's how they repay me for my kindness...." They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips. "_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!" Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull-witted, prosperous woman. Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms! Oh, if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage, and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that woman! But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing left to do--to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another hour in this place. It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do? Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here. She was so disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing. "May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice. "May I?" "Come in." He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer, and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby hands. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket. "I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!" "I understand.... Only you are wrong to go. Why should you? They've searched your things, but you ... what does it matter to you? You will be none the worse for it." Mashenka was silent and went on packing. Nikolay Sergeitch pinched his moustache, as though wondering what he should say next, and went on in an ingratiating voice: "I understand, of course, but you must make allowances. You know my wife is nervous, headstrong; you mustn't judge her too harshly." Mashenka did not speak. "If you are so offended," Nikolay Sergeitch went on, "well, if you like, I'm ready to apologise. I ask your pardon." Mashenka made no answer, but only bent lower over her box. This exhausted, irresolute man was of absolutely no significance in the household. He stood in the pitiful position of a dependent and hanger-on, even with the servants, and his apology meant nothing either. "H'm!... You say nothing! That's not enough for you. In that case, I will apologise for my wife. In my wife's name.... She behaved tactlessly, I admit it as a gentleman...." Nikolay Sergeitch walked about the room, heaved a sigh, and went on: "Then you want me to have it rankling here, under my heart.... You want my conscience to torment me...." "I know it's not your fault, Nikolay Sergeitch," said Mashenka, looking him full in the face with her big tear-stained eyes. "Why should you worry yourself?" "Of course, no.... But still, don't you ... go away. I entreat you." Mashenka shook her head. Nikolay Sergeitch stopped at the window and drummed on the pane with his finger-tips. "Such misunderstandings are simply torture to me," he said. "Why, do you want me to go down on my knees to you, or what? Your pride is wounded, and here you've been crying and packing up to go; but I have pride, too, and you do not spare it! Or do you want me to tell you what I would not tell as Confession? Do you? Listen; you want me to tell you what I | heart, which set up a throbbing in her temples, in her heart, and deep down in her stomach. "Dinner is ready," the servant summoned Mashenka. "Shall I go, or not?" Mashenka brushed her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went into the dining-room. There they had already begun dinner. At one end of the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna with a stupid, solemn, serious face; at the other end Nikolay Sergeitch. At the sides there were the visitors and the children. The dishes were handed by two footmen in swallowtails and white gloves. Every one knew that there was an upset in the house, that Madame Kushkin was in trouble, and every one was silent. Nothing was heard but the sound of munching and the rattle of spoons on the plates. The lady of the house, herself, was the first to speak. "What is the third course?" she asked the footman in a weary, injured voice. "_Esturgeon à la russe_," answered the footman. "I ordered that, Fenya," Nikolay Sergeitch hastened to observe. "I wanted some fish. If you don't like it, _ma chère_, don't let them serve it. I just ordered it...." Fedosya Vassilyevna did not like dishes that she had not ordered herself, and now her eyes filled with tears. "Come, don't let us agitate ourselves," Mamikov, her household doctor, observed in a honeyed voice, just touching her arm, with a smile as honeyed. "We are nervous enough as it is. Let us forget the brooch! Health is worth more than two thousand roubles!" "It's not the two thousand I regret," answered the lady, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. "It's the fact itself that revolts me! I cannot put up with thieves in my house. I don't regret it--I regret nothing; but to steal from me is such ingratitude! That's how they repay me for my kindness...." They all looked into their plates, but Mashenka fancied after the lady's words that every one was looking at her. A lump rose in her throat; she began crying and put her handkerchief to her lips. "_Pardon_," she muttered. "I can't help it. My head aches. I'll go away." And she got up from the table, scraping her chair awkwardly, and went out quickly, still more overcome with confusion. "It's beyond everything!" said Nikolay Sergeitch, frowning. "What need was there to search her room? How out of place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch,"<|quote|>said Fedosya Vassilyevna,</|quote|>"but can you answer for her? To tell the truth, I haven't much confidence in these learned paupers." "It really was unsuitable, Fenya.... Excuse me, Fenya, but you've no kind of legal right to make a search." "I know nothing about your laws. All I know is that I've lost my brooch. And I will find the brooch!" She brought her fork down on the plate with a clatter, and her eyes flashed angrily. "And you eat your dinner, and don't interfere in what doesn't concern you!" Nikolay Sergeitch dropped his eyes mildly and sighed. Meanwhile Mashenka, reaching her room, flung herself on her bed. She felt now neither alarm nor shame, but she felt an intense longing to go and slap the cheeks of this hard, arrogant, dull-witted, prosperous woman. Lying on her bed she breathed into her pillow and dreamed of how nice it would be to go and buy the most expensive brooch and fling it into the face of this bullying woman. If only it were God's will that Fedosya Vassilyevna should come to ruin and wander about begging, and should taste all the horrors of poverty and dependence, and that Mashenka, whom she had insulted, might give her alms! Oh, if only she could come in for a big fortune, could buy a carriage, and could drive noisily past the windows so as to be envied by that woman! But all these were only dreams, in reality there was only one thing left to do--to get away as quickly as possible, not to stay another hour in this place. It was true it was terrible to lose her place, to go back to her parents, who had nothing; but what could she do? Mashenka could not bear the sight of the lady of the house nor of her little room; she felt stifled and wretched here. She was so disgusted with Fedosya Vassilyevna, who was so obsessed by her illnesses and her supposed aristocratic rank, that everything in the world seemed to have become coarse and unattractive because this woman was living in it. Mashenka jumped up from the bed and began packing. "May I come in?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch at the door; he had come up noiselessly to the door, and spoke in a soft, subdued voice. "May I?" "Come in." He came in and stood still near the door. His eyes looked dim and his red little nose was shiny. After dinner he used to drink beer, and the fact was perceptible in his walk, in his feeble, flabby hands. "What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket. "I am packing. Forgive me, Nikolay Sergeitch, but I cannot remain in your house. I feel deeply insulted by this search!" "I understand.... Only you are wrong to go. Why should you? They've searched your things, but you | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (3) |
"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman." | Duchess Of Monmouth | battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"They were defeated." "There are | not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"They were defeated." "There are worse things than capture," she | get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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 | you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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." | best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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." | hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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 | 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," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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, and make them move before one! What sort of life would his be if, day and night, shadows of his crime were to peer at him from silent corners, to mock him from secret places, to whisper in his ear as he sat at the feast, to | hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants happiness? I have searched for pleasure." "And found it, Mr. Gray?" "Often. Too often." The duchess sighed. "I am searching for peace," she said, "and if I don t go and dress, I shall have none this evening." "Let me get you some orchids, Duchess," cried Dorian, starting to his feet and walking down the conservatory. "You are flirting disgracefully with him," said Lord Henry to his cousin. "You had better take care. He is very fascinating." "If he were not, there would be no battle." "Greek meets Greek, then?"<|quote|>"I am on the side of the Trojans. They fought for a woman."</|quote|>"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 | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. | No speaker | re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I | s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn | floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He | I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the | made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and | his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. "I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?" "Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It | dressing-table. On the further side the bedclothes were depressed as if someone had been recently sitting there. Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say, "Good Heavens! Kemp!" But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices. He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and blood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room, near the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings. The feeling that is called "eerie" came upon him. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand. He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him. "Kemp!" said the Voice. "Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open. "Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I m an Invisible Man." Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. "Invisible Man," he said. "I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice. The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed through Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later. "I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. "I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?" "Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I m hungry in pain. And you want me to tell stories!" Kemp got up. "_You_ didn t do any shooting?" he asked. "Not me," said his visitor. "Some fool I d never seen fired at random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them! I say I want more to eat than this, Kemp." "I ll see what there is to eat downstairs," said Kemp. "Not much, I m afraid." After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast. "This blessed gift of smoking!" he said, and puffed vigorously. "I m lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling on you just now! I m in a devilish scrape I ve been mad, I think. The things I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell you" He helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked about him, and fetched a glass from his spare room. "It s wild but I suppose I may drink." "You haven t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don t. Cool and methodical after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will work | The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. "I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?" "Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly,"<|quote|>said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.</|quote|>"Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was | The Invisible Man |
Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities. | No speaker | say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. | that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride | and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him | corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" | again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life | that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip | canvas grinning at him. There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing. Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray s own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty. There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth. The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat. Yes, it was Dorian himself. But who had done it? He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design. The idea was monstrous, yet he felt afraid. He seized the lighted candle, and held it to the picture. In the left-hand corner was his own name, traced in long letters of bright vermilion. It was some foul parody, some infamous ignoble satire. He had never done that. Still, it was his own picture. He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice. His own picture! What did it mean? Why had it altered? He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate. He passed his hand across his forehead. It was dank with clammy sweat. The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting. There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy. There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so. "What does this mean?" cried Hallward, at last. His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears. "Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks. One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty. In a mad moment that, even now, I don t know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer...." "I remember it! Oh, how well I remember it! No! the thing is impossible. The room is damp. Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward stirred in his chair as if he was going to rise. He rushed at him and dug the knife into the great vein that is behind the ear, crushing the man s head down on the table and stabbing again and again. There was a stifled groan and the horrible sound of some one choking with blood. Three times the outstretched arms shot up convulsively, waving grotesque, stiff-fingered hands in the air. He stabbed him twice more, but the man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door and went out on the landing. The house was absolutely quiet. No one was about. For a few seconds he stood bending over the balustrade and peering down into the black seething well of darkness. Then he took out the key and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck and the clotted black pool that was slowly widening on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and walking over to the window, opened it and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock s tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing the long beam of his lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner and then vanished. A woman in a fluttering shawl was creeping slowly by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the square. The gas-lamps flickered and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches to and fro. He shivered and went back, closing the window behind him. Having reached the door, he turned the key and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted the fatal portrait to which all his misery had been due had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel, and studded with coarse turquoises. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He hesitated for a moment, then he turned back and took it from | poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don t believe it is my picture." "Can t you see your ideal in it?" said Dorian bitterly. "My ideal, as you call it..." "As you called it." "There was nothing evil in it, nothing shameful. You were to me such an ideal as I shall never meet again. This is the face of a satyr." "It is the face of my soul." "Christ! what a thing I must have worshipped! It has the eyes of a devil." "Each of us has heaven and hell in him, Basil," cried Dorian with a wild gesture of despair. Hallward turned again to the portrait and gazed at it. "My God! If it is true," he exclaimed, "and this is what you have done with your life, why, you must be worse even than those who talk against you fancy you to be!" He held the light up again to the canvas and examined it. The surface seemed to be quite undisturbed and as he had left it. It was from within, apparently, that the foulness and horror had come. Through some strange quickening of inner life the leprosies of sin were slowly eating the thing away. The rotting of a corpse in a watery grave was not so fearful. His hand shook, and the candle fell from its socket on the floor and lay there sputtering. He placed his foot on it and put it out. Then he flung himself into the rickety chair that was standing by the table and buried his face in his hands. "Good God, Dorian, what a lesson! What an awful lesson!" There was no answer, but he could hear the young man sobbing at the window. "Pray, Dorian, pray," he murmured. "What is it that one was taught to say in one s boyhood?"<|quote|>Lead us not into temptation. Forgive us our sins. Wash away our iniquities.</|quote|>"Let us say that together. The prayer of your pride has been answered. The prayer of your repentance will be answered also. I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished." Dorian Gray turned slowly around and looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes. "It is too late, Basil," he faltered. "It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down and try if we cannot remember a prayer. Isn t there a verse somewhere, Though your sins be as scarlet, yet I will make them as white as snow ?" "Those words mean nothing to me now." "Hush! Don t say that. You have done enough evil in your life. My God! Don t you see that accursed thing leering at us?" Dorian Gray glanced at the picture, and suddenly an uncontrollable feeling of hatred for Basil Hallward came over him, as though it had been suggested to him by the image on the canvas, whispered into his ear by those grinning lips. The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything. He glanced wildly around. Something glimmered on the top of the painted chest that faced him. His eye fell on it. He knew what it was. It was a knife that he had brought up, some days before, to cut a piece of cord, and had forgotten to take away with him. He moved slowly towards it, passing Hallward as he did so. As soon as he got behind him, he seized it and turned round. Hallward | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !" | Hercule Poirot | they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an | John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, | truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was | good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch | stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_." "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall." "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly." "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!" I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his | I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_." "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall." "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly." "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!" I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles. I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done. Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good. Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply. Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for everyone. The Scotland Yard men were the | actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?" "It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?" "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder." "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one. "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. "No, can you?" "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago and it has turned out to be correct." "You never told me," I said reproachfully. Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me you see now that he must not be arrested?" "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap." "His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_" "No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_." "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall." "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly." "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!" I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles. I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done. Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good. Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply. Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for everyone. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things now we ourselves were actors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines: "MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX" "WEALTHY LADY POISONED" There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leaving the Inquest" the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings. I think everyone was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative. "_Mesdames_ and _messieurs_," said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp." Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself I think, unconsciously, everyone had drawn his chair slightly away from him and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name. "Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very dark shadow is resting on this house the shadow of murder." Inglethorp shook his head sadly. "My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is terrible." "I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot pointedly, "that you quite realize how terrible it may be for you." And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger." The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anything you say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering on Summerhaye's lips. Poirot went on. "Do you understand now, monsieur?" "No. What do you mean?" "I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are suspected of poisoning your wife." A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking. "Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up. "What a monstrous idea! _I_ poison my dearest Emily!" "I do not think" Poirot watched him narrowly "that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. | strange _hein?_" "No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"<|quote|>"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !"</|quote|>His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_." "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall." "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly." "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!" I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles. I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done. Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good. Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply. Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for everyone. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things now we ourselves were actors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines: "MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX" "WEALTHY LADY POISONED" There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leaving the Inquest" the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings. I think everyone was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative. "_Mesdames_ and _messieurs_," said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. | No speaker | hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked | which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, | you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself | pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. "He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will | whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. "He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty | you? Give 'em here." With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. "He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, | What are you stopping me for?" The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand. "Oh my gracious!" said the young woman, "I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not. "Oh, no, no, never mind," said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; "I'm better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!" "Oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart." "Young wretch!" said one woman. "Go home, do, you little brute," said the other. "I am not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville." "Only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman. "Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment. "You see he knows me!" cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "He can't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!" "What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; "young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home directly." "I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp. "Help!" repeated the man. "Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here." With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head. "That's right!" cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. "That's the only way of bringing him to his senses!" "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window. "It'll do him good!" said the two women. "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!" Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. "He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out again. "Wait a minute!" said the girl: "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me." "And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. "Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there." The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white. They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many years. "All right," cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about. Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let them in, chained and barred the door. "Anybody here?" inquired Sikes. "No," replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before. "Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber. "Yes," replied the voice, "and | blows and the suddenness of the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain. The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them. CHAPTER XVI. RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. "Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round. They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers. "Give me the other,"<|quote|>said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.</|quote|>"Here, Bull's-Eye!" The dog looked up, and growled. "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind!" The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. "He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young'un!" Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward. It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. "Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased. "What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied Sikes. "I wonder whether _they_ can hear it," said Nancy. "Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door." "Poor fellow!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as them!" "Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter." With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared | Oliver Twist |
"You never used to judge people like this at home." | Mrs. Moore | Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, | in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order | of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, | in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, while "increasing the izzat" was Major Callendar's own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand, and might press him for definite examples. She only said, "I can't deny that what you say sounds | doesn't care for the Callendars at all." "Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark." "Ronny, Ronny! you're never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?" "Yes, rather. I must, in fact!" "But, my dear boy" "If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me." "But, my dear boy a private conversation!" "Nothing's private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so don't you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, while "increasing the izzat" was Major Callendar's own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand, and might press him for definite examples. She only said, "I can't deny that what you say sounds very sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz." He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, "In return please don't talk about Aziz to Adela." "Not talk about him? Why?" "There you go again, mother I really can't explain every thing. I don't want Adela to be worried, that's the fact; she'll begin wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort of nonsense." "But she came out to be worried that's exactly why she's here. She discussed it all on the boat. We | gone, and a circlet, itself to alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed whether they would wait for the change or not, while the silence broke into patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her account they did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short interview with her son. He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious characters and conceivably it was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up from the bazaar. When she told him that it was someone connected with the Minto Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow's name must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against him at all. "Aziz! what a charming name!" "So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?" Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, "Yes, quite, after the first moment." "I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us the brutal conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?" "Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars he doesn't care for the Callendars at all." "Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark." "Ronny, Ronny! you're never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?" "Yes, rather. I must, in fact!" "But, my dear boy" "If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me." "But, my dear boy a private conversation!" "Nothing's private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so don't you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, while "increasing the izzat" was Major Callendar's own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand, and might press him for definite examples. She only said, "I can't deny that what you say sounds very sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz." He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, "In return please don't talk about Aziz to Adela." "Not talk about him? Why?" "There you go again, mother I really can't explain every thing. I don't want Adela to be worried, that's the fact; she'll begin wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort of nonsense." "But she came out to be worried that's exactly why she's here. She discussed it all on the boat. We had a long talk when we went on shore at Aden. She knows you in play, as she put it, but not in work, and she felt she must come and look round, before she decided and before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded." "I know," he said dejectedly. The note of anxiety in his voice made her feel that he was still a little boy, who must have what he liked, so she promised to do as he wished, and they kissed good night. He had not forbidden her to think about Aziz, however, and she did this when she retired to her room. In the light of her son's comment she reconsidered the scene at the mosque, to see whose impression was correct. Yes, it could be worked into quite an unpleasant scene. The doctor had begun by bullying her, had said Mrs. Callendar was nice, and then finding the ground safe had changed; he had alternately whined over his grievances and patronized her, had run a dozen ways in a single sentence, had been unreliable, inquisitive, vain. Yes, it was all true, but how false as a summary of the man; the essential life of him | brought out all the comradely emotions. What a mix-up! Why hadn't she indicated by the tone of her voice that she was talking about an Indian? Scratchy and dictatorial, he began to question her. "He called to you in the mosque, did he? How? Impudently? What was he doing there himself at that time of night? No, it's not their prayer time." This in answer to a suggestion of Miss Quested's, who showed the keenest interest. "So he called to you over your shoes. Then it was impudence. It's an old trick. I wish you had had them on." "I think it was impudence, but I don't know about a trick," said Mrs. Moore. "His nerves were all on edge I could tell from his voice. As soon as I answered he altered." "You oughtn't to have answered." "Now look here," said the logical girl, "wouldn't you expect a Mohammedan to answer if you asked him to take off his hat in church?" "It's different, it's different; you don't understand." "I know I don't, and I want to. What is the difference, please?" He wished she wouldn't interfere. His mother did not signify she was just a globe-trotter, a temporary escort, who could retire to England with what impressions she chose. But Adela, who meditated spending her life in the country, was a more serious matter; it would be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question. Pulling up the mare, he said, "There's your Ganges." Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood like a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them that it was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let them. "It's not much of a dead body that gets down to Chandrapore." "Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!" his mother murmured. The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was restored between them consequently. She continued: "What a terrible river! what a wonderful river!" and sighed. The radiance was already altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the sand; soon the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, itself to alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed whether they would wait for the change or not, while the silence broke into patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her account they did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short interview with her son. He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious characters and conceivably it was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up from the bazaar. When she told him that it was someone connected with the Minto Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow's name must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against him at all. "Aziz! what a charming name!" "So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?" Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, "Yes, quite, after the first moment." "I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us the brutal conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?" "Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars he doesn't care for the Callendars at all." "Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark." "Ronny, Ronny! you're never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?" "Yes, rather. I must, in fact!" "But, my dear boy" "If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me." "But, my dear boy a private conversation!" "Nothing's private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so don't you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, while "increasing the izzat" was Major Callendar's own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand, and might press him for definite examples. She only said, "I can't deny that what you say sounds very sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz." He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, "In return please don't talk about Aziz to Adela." "Not talk about him? Why?" "There you go again, mother I really can't explain every thing. I don't want Adela to be worried, that's the fact; she'll begin wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort of nonsense." "But she came out to be worried that's exactly why she's here. She discussed it all on the boat. We had a long talk when we went on shore at Aden. She knows you in play, as she put it, but not in work, and she felt she must come and look round, before she decided and before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded." "I know," he said dejectedly. The note of anxiety in his voice made her feel that he was still a little boy, who must have what he liked, so she promised to do as he wished, and they kissed good night. He had not forbidden her to think about Aziz, however, and she did this when she retired to her room. In the light of her son's comment she reconsidered the scene at the mosque, to see whose impression was correct. Yes, it could be worked into quite an unpleasant scene. The doctor had begun by bullying her, had said Mrs. Callendar was nice, and then finding the ground safe had changed; he had alternately whined over his grievances and patronized her, had run a dozen ways in a single sentence, had been unreliable, inquisitive, vain. Yes, it was all true, but how false as a summary of the man; the essential life of him had been slain. Going to hang up her cloak, she found that the tip of the peg was occupied by a small wasp. She had known this wasp or his relatives by day; they were not as English wasps, but had long yellow legs which hung down behind when they flew. Perhaps he mistook the peg for a branch no Indian animal has any sense of an interior. Bats, rats, birds, insects will as soon nest inside a house as out; it is to them a normal growth of the eternal jungle, which alternately produces houses trees, houses trees. There he clung, asleep, while jackals in the plain bayed their desires and mingled with the percussion of drums. "Pretty dear," said Mrs. Moore to the wasp. He did not wake, but her voice floated out, to swell the night's uneasiness. CHAPTER IV The Collector kept his word. Next day he issued invitation cards to numerous Indian gentlemen in the neighbourhood, stating that he would be at home in the garden of the club between the hours of five and seven on the following Tuesday, also that Mrs. Turton would be glad to receive any ladies of their families who were out of purdah. His action caused much excitement and was discussed in several worlds. "It is owing to orders from the L.G.," was Mahmoud Ali's explanation. "Turton would never do this unless compelled. Those high officials are different they sympathize, the Viceroy sympathizes, they would have us treated properly. But they come too seldom and live too far away. Meanwhile" "It is easy to sympathize at a distance," said an old gentleman with a beard. "I value more the kind word that is spoken close to my ear. Mr. Turton has spoken it, from whatever cause. He speaks, we hear. I do not see why we need discuss it further." Quotations followed from the Koran. "We have not all your sweet nature, Nawab Bahadur, nor your learning." "The Lieutenant-Governor may be my very good friend, but I give him no trouble." How do you do, Nawab Bahadur? Quite well, thank you, Sir Gilbert; how are you? "And all is over. But I can be a thorn in Mr. Turton's flesh, and if he asks me I accept the invitation. I shall come in from Dilkusha specially, though I have to postpone other business." "You will make yourself chip," suddenly said | be tiresome if she started crooked over the native question. Pulling up the mare, he said, "There's your Ganges." Their attention was diverted. Below them a radiance had suddenly appeared. It belonged neither to water nor moonlight, but stood like a luminous sheaf upon the fields of darkness. He told them that it was where the new sand-bank was forming, and that the dark ravelled bit at the top was the sand, and that the dead bodies floated down that way from Benares, or would if the crocodiles let them. "It's not much of a dead body that gets down to Chandrapore." "Crocodiles down in it too, how terrible!" his mother murmured. The young people glanced at each other and smiled; it amused them when the old lady got these gentle creeps, and harmony was restored between them consequently. She continued: "What a terrible river! what a wonderful river!" and sighed. The radiance was already altering, whether through shifting of the moon or of the sand; soon the bright sheaf would be gone, and a circlet, itself to alter, be burnished upon the streaming void. The women discussed whether they would wait for the change or not, while the silence broke into patches of unquietness and the mare shivered. On her account they did not wait, but drove on to the City Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Quested went to bed, and Mrs. Moore had a short interview with her son. He wanted to enquire about the Mohammedan doctor in the mosque. It was his duty to report suspicious characters and conceivably it was some disreputable hakim who had prowled up from the bazaar. When she told him that it was someone connected with the Minto Hospital, he was relieved, and said that the fellow's name must be Aziz, and that he was quite all right, nothing against him at all. "Aziz! what a charming name!" "So you and he had a talk. Did you gather he was well disposed?" Ignorant of the force of this question, she replied, "Yes, quite, after the first moment." "I meant, generally. Did he seem to tolerate us the brutal conqueror, the sundried bureaucrat, that sort of thing?" "Oh, yes, I think so, except the Callendars he doesn't care for the Callendars at all." "Oh. So he told you that, did he? The Major will be interested. I wonder what was the aim of the remark." "Ronny, Ronny! you're never going to pass it on to Major Callendar?" "Yes, rather. I must, in fact!" "But, my dear boy" "If the Major heard I was disliked by any native subordinate of mine, I should expect him to pass it on to me." "But, my dear boy a private conversation!" "Nothing's private in India. Aziz knew that when he spoke out, so don't you worry. He had some motive in what he said. My personal belief is that the remark wasn't true." "How not true?" "He abused the Major in order to impress you." "I don't know what you mean, dear." "It's the educated native's latest dodge. They used to cringe, but the younger generation believe in a show of manly independence. They think it will pay better with the itinerant M.P. But whether the native swaggers or cringes, there's always something behind every remark he makes, always something, and if nothing else he's trying to increase his izzat in plain Anglo-Saxon, to score. Of course there are exceptions."<|quote|>"You never used to judge people like this at home."</|quote|>"India isn't home," he retorted, rather rudely, but in order to silence her he had been using phrases and arguments that he had picked up from older officials, and he did not feel quite sure of himself. When he said "of course there are exceptions" he was quoting Mr. Turton, while "increasing the izzat" was Major Callendar's own. The phrases worked and were in current use at the club, but she was rather clever at detecting the first from the second hand, and might press him for definite examples. She only said, "I can't deny that what you say sounds very sensible, but you really must not hand on to Major Callendar anything I have told you about Doctor Aziz." He felt disloyal to his caste, but he promised, adding, "In return please don't talk about Aziz to Adela." "Not talk about him? Why?" "There you go again, mother I really can't explain every thing. I don't want Adela to be worried, that's the fact; she'll begin wondering whether we treat the natives properly, and all that sort of nonsense." "But she came out to be worried that's exactly why she's here. She discussed it all on the boat. We had a long talk when we went on shore at Aden. She knows you in play, as she put it, but not in work, and she felt she must come and look round, before she decided and before you decided. She is very, very fair-minded." "I know," he said dejectedly. The | A Passage To India |
"Fine. This one is on me," | Bill Gorton | have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any | of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. | should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and | changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave | round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left." "Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink." "Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances." "No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. "Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. "Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little." "Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye." "I haven't any credit along the coast." "You can't ever tell," said Bill. We | white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left." "Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink." "Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances." "No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. "Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. "Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little." "Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye." "I haven't any credit along the coast." "You can't ever tell," said Bill. We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea. At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car. "Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta." "So long, Mike," Bill said. "I'll see you around," I said. "Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll | was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left." "Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink." "Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances." "No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. "Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. "Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little." "Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye." "I haven't any credit along the coast." "You can't ever tell," said Bill. We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea. At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car. "Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta." "So long, Mike," Bill said. "I'll see you around," I said. "Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll send you my share." "So long, Mike." "So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice." We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks. "So long, fella," Bill said. "So long, kid!" "It was swell. I've had a swell time." "Will you be in Paris?" "No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!" "So long, old kid!" He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. I watched the train pull out. Bill was at one of the windows. The window passed, the rest of the train passed, and the tracks were empty. I went outside to the car. "How much do we owe you?" I asked the driver. The price to Bayonne had been fixed at a hundred and fifty pesetas. "Two hundred pesetas." "How much more will it be if you drive me to San Sebastian on your way back?" "Fifty pesetas." "Don't kid me." "Thirty-five pesetas." "It's not worth it," I said. "Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri." At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town. At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York _Herald_ and sat in a caf to read it. It felt strange to be in France again. There was a safe, suburban feeling. I wished I had gone up to Paris with Bill, except that Paris would have meant more fiesta-ing. I was through with fiestas for a while. It would be quiet in San Sebastian. The season does not open there until August. I could get a good hotel room | you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks." "What are you going to do for money?" "Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should be here. I can live on tick at this pub in Saint Jean." "What do you want to do about the car?" Bill asked me. "Do you want to keep it on?" "It doesn't make any difference. Seems sort of idiotic." "Come on, let's have another drink," Mike said.<|quote|>"Fine. This one is on me,"</|quote|>Bill said. "Has Brett any money?" He turned to Mike. "I shouldn't think so. She put up most of what I gave to old Montoya." "She hasn't any money with her?" I asked. "I shouldn't think so. She never has any money. She gets five hundred quid a year and pays three hundred and fifty of it in interest to Jews." "I suppose they get it at the source," said Bill. "Quite. They're not really Jews. We just call them Jews. They're Scotsmen, I believe." "Hasn't she any at all with her?" I asked. "I hardly think so. She gave it all to me when she left." "Well," Bill said, "we might as well have another drink." "Damned good idea," Mike said. "One never gets anywhere by discussing finances." "No," said Bill. Bill and I rolled for the next two rounds. Bill lost and paid. We went out to the car. "Anywhere you'd like to go, Mike?" Bill asked. "Let's take a drive. It might do my credit good. Let's drive about a little." "Fine. I'd like to see the coast. Let's drive down toward Hendaye." "I haven't any credit along the coast." "You can't ever tell," said Bill. We drove out along the coast road. There was the green of the headlands, the white, red-roofed villas, patches of forest, and the ocean very blue with the tide out and the water curling far out along the beach. We drove through Saint Jean de Luz and passed through villages farther down the coast. Back of the rolling country we were going through we saw the mountains we had come over from Pamplona. The road went on ahead. Bill looked at his watch. It was time for us to go back. He knocked on the glass and told the driver to turn around. The driver backed the car out into the grass to turn it. In back of us were the woods, below a stretch of meadow, then the sea. At the hotel where Mike was going to stay in Saint Jean we stopped the car and he got out. The chauffeur carried in his bags. Mike stood by the side of the car. "Good-bye, you chaps," Mike said. "It was a damned fine fiesta." "So long, Mike," Bill said. "I'll see you around," I said. "Don't worry about money," Mike said. "You can pay for the car, Jake, and I'll send you my share." "So long, Mike." "So long, you chaps. You've been damned nice." We all shook hands. We waved from the car to Mike. He stood in the road watching. We got to Bayonne just before the train left. A porter carried Bill's bags in from the consigne. I went as far as the inner gate to the tracks. "So long, fella," Bill said. "So long, kid!" "It was swell. I've had a swell time." "Will you be in Paris?" "No, I have to sail on the 17th. So long, fella!" "So long, old kid!" He went in through the gate to the train. The porter went ahead with the bags. | The Sun Also Rises |
cried Elizabeth. | No speaker | not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, | hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it | me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of | if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. | smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," | "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me." "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," | brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!" "--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well.--I really cannot _laugh_ at it. You are safe from me." "There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." "And _your_ defect is a propensity to hate every body." "And yours," he replied with a smile, "is wilfully to misunderstand them." "Do let us have a little music," "--cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share.--" "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst." Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened, and Darcy, after a few moments recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention. CHAPTER XII. In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to her mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well.--Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved--nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made. The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow, their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other. The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her--that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right. To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence--Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked--and Miss Bingley was uncivil to _her_, and more teazing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should _now_ escape him, nothing that | mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards." "I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." "Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!"<|quote|>cried Elizabeth.</|quote|>"That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--" "there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--" "and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No" "--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My | Pride And Prejudice |
he said. | No speaker | “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re | can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re | tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; | nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the | remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?” “I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.” He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.” Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: “It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were | laid the whip on the horses and went off full tilt. He ran after me shouting all manner of things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy. One horse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove at a good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in the distance. The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from grannie for my conduct. It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached. His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?” “I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.” He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.” Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: “It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down | nice to have enough of any delicacy one fancied. Not that we ever went hungry at home, but when one has nothing to eat in the hot weather but bread and beef it gives them tendency to dream of fruit and cool dainties. When one thinks of the countless army of one’s fellows who are daily selling their very souls for the barest necessaries of life, I suppose we—irresponsible beings—should be thankful to God for allowing us, by scratching and scraping all our lives, to keep a crust in our mouth and a rag on our back. I am not thankful, I have been guilty of what Pat would term a “digresshion” —I started about going for the mail at Dogtrap. Harold Beecham never once missed taking me home on Thursdays, even when his shearing was in full swing and he must have been very busy. He never once uttered a word of love to me—not so much as one of the soft nothings in which young people of opposite sexes often deal without any particular significance. Whether he went to all the bother and waste of time accruing from escorting me home out of gentlemanliness alone, was a mystery to me. I desired to find out, and resolved to drive instead of ride to Dogtrap one day to see what he would say. Grannie assented to the project. Of course I could drive for once if I didn’t feel able to ride, but the horses had been spelling for a long time and were very frisky. I must take Frank with me or I might get my neck broken. I flatly opposed the idea of Frank Hawden going with me. He would make a mull of the whole thing. It was no use arguing with grannie and impressing upon her the fact that I was not the least nervous concerning the horses. I could take Frank with me in the buggy, ride, or stay at home. I preferred driving. Accordingly the fat horses were harnessed to the buggy, and with many injunctions to be careful and not forget the parcels, we set out. Frank Hawden’s presence spoilt it all, but I determined to soon make short work of him. There was one gate to go through, about four miles from the house. Frank Hawden got out to open it. I drove through, and while he was pushing it to, laid the whip on the horses and went off full tilt. He ran after me shouting all manner of things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy. One horse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove at a good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in the distance. The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from grannie for my conduct. It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached. His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?” “I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.” He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.” Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: “It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,” he said with mock severity. “Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted for walking the eight miles on the hard hot road ahead of me. I walked resolutely on, without deigning a glance at Harold, who had slowed down to a crawling walk. “Aren’t you ready to get up now?” he inquired presently. I did not reply. At the end of a quarter of a mile he jumped out of the buggy, seized upon me, lifted me in, and laughed, saying, “You’re a very slashing little concern, but you are not big enough to do much damage.” We were about half-way home when Barney gave a tremendous lurch, breaking a trace and some other straps. Mr Beecham was at the head of the plunging horse in a twinkling. The harness seemed to be scattered everywhere. “I expect I had better walk on now,” I remarked. “Walk, be grannied! With two fat lazy horses to draw you?” returned Mr Beecham. Men are clumsy, stupid creatures regarding little things, but in their right place they are wonderful animals. If a buggy was smashed to smithereens, from one of their many mysterious pockets they would produce a knife and some string, and put the wreck into working order in no time. Harold was as clever in this way as any other man with as much bushman ability as he had, so it was not long ere we were bowling | with many injunctions to be careful and not forget the parcels, we set out. Frank Hawden’s presence spoilt it all, but I determined to soon make short work of him. There was one gate to go through, about four miles from the house. Frank Hawden got out to open it. I drove through, and while he was pushing it to, laid the whip on the horses and went off full tilt. He ran after me shouting all manner of things that I could not hear on account of the rattle of the buggy. One horse began kicking up, so, to give him no time for further pranks, I drove at a good round gallop, which quickly left the lovable jackeroo a speck in the distance. The dust rose in thick clouds, the stones rattled from the whirling wheels, the chirr! chirr! of a myriad cicadas filled the air, and the white road glistened in the dazzling sunlight. I was enjoying myself tip-top, and chuckled to think of the way I had euchred Frank Hawden. It was such a good joke that I considered it worth two of the blowings-up I was sure of getting from grannie for my conduct. It was not long before I fetched up at Dogtrap homestead, where, tethered to the “six-foot” paling fence which surrounded the flower-garden, was Harold Beecham’s favourite, great, black, saddle-horse Warrigal. The vicious brute turned his beautiful head, displaying a white star on the forehead, and snorted as I approached. His master appeared on the veranda raising his soft panama hat, and remarking, “Well I never! You’re not by yourself, are you?” “I am. Would you please tell Mrs Butler to bring out grannie’s parcels and post at once. I’m afraid to dawdle, it’s getting late.” He disappeared to execute my request and reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Beecham, please would you examine Barney’s harness. Something must be hurting him. He has been kicking up all the way.” Examining the harness and noticing the sweat that was dripping from the animals, panting from their run, he said: “It looks as though you’ve been making the pace a cracker. There is nothing that is irritating Barney in the least. If he’s putting on any airs it is because he is frisky and not safe for you to drive. How did Julius happen to let you away by yourself?” “I’m not frightened,” I replied. “I see you’re not. You’d be game to tackle a pair of wild elephants, I know, but you must remember you’re not much bigger than a sparrow sitting up there, and I won’t let you go back by yourself.” “You cannot stop me.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “You can’t.” “I can.” “How?” “I’m going with you,”<|quote|>he said.</|quote|>“You’re not.” “I am.” “You’re not.” I am”. “You ar-r-re not.” “I am”. “You are, ar-r-re not.” “We’ll see whether I will or not in a minute or two,” he said with amusement. “But, Mr Betcham, I object to your company. I am quite capable of taking care of myself; besides, if you come home with me I will not be allowed out alone again—it will be altogether unpleasant for me.” Mrs Butler now appeared with the mail and some parcels, and Harold stowed them in the buggy. “You’d better come in an’ ’ave a drop of tay-warter, miss, the kittle’s bilin’; and I have the table laid out for both of yez.” “No, thank you, Mrs Butler. I can’t possibly stay today, it’s getting late. I must hurry off. Good-bye! Good afternoon, Mr Beecham.” I turned my buggy and pair smartly round and was swooping off. Without a word Harold was at their heads and seized the reins. He seized his horse’s bridle, where it was over the paling, and in a moment had him tied on the off-side of Barney, then stepping quietly into the buggy he put me away from the driver’s seat as though I were a baby, quietly took the reins and whip, raised his hat to Mrs Butler, who was smiling knowingly, and drove off. I was highly delighted with his action, as I would have despised him as a booby had he given in to me, but I did not let my satisfaction appear. I sat as far away from him as possible, and pretended to be in a great huff. For a while he was too fully occupied in making Barney “sit up” to notice me, but after a few minutes he looked round, smiling a most annoying and pleasant smile. “I’d advise you to straighten out your chin. It is too round and soft to look well screwed up that way,” he said provokingly. I tried to extinguish him with a look, but it had not the desired effect. “Now you had better be civil, for I have got the big end of the whip,” he said. “I reserve to myself the right of behaving as I think fit in my own uncle’s buggy. You are an intruder; it is yourself that should be civil.” I erected my parasol and held it so as to tease Harold. I put it down so that he could not see the horses. He quietly seized my wrist and held it out of his way for a time, and then loosing me said, “Now, behave.” I flouted it now, so that his ears and eyes were endangered, and he was forced to hold his hat on. “I’ll give you three minutes to behave, or I’ll put you out,” he said with mock severity. “Shure it’s me wot’s behavin’ beautiful,” I replied, continuing my nonsense. He pulled rein, seized me in one arm, and lifted me lightly to the ground. “Now, you can walk till you promise to conduct yourself like a Christian!” he said, driving at a walk. “If you wait till I promise anything, you’ll wait till the end of the century. I’m quite capable of walking home.” “You’ll soon get tired of walking in this heat, and your feet will be blistered in a mile with those bits of paper.” The bits of paper to which he alluded were a pair of thin-soled white canvas slippers—not at all fitted | My Brilliant Career |
"I didn't take it," | Noah Claypole | lucky it was only me."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>stammered Noah, no longer stretching | by chance. It was very lucky it was only me."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an | 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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 | lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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 | be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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. | we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got, especially as we don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves." After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him. The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney. "A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?" "How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole. "We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles. "Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!" "Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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. | "Ah! Ad rub uds too," added Barney. "Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I'b bistaked." Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest. Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure. "Aha!" he whispered, looking round to Barney, "I like that fellow's looks. He'd be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don't make as much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear 'em talk let me hear 'em." He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, listened attentively: with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to some old goblin. "So I mean to be a gentleman," said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear. "No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman's life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady." "I should like that well enough, dear," replied Charlotte; "but tills ain't to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it." "Tills be blowed!" said Mr. Claypole; "there's more things besides tills to be emptied." "What do you mean?" asked his companion. "Pockets, women's ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!" said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter. "But you can't do all that, dear," said Charlotte. "I shall look out to get into company with them as can," replied Noah. "They'll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer." "Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!" exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face. "There, that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with yer," said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. "I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got, especially as we don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves." After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him. The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney. "A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?" "How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole. "We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles. "Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!" "Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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. "But, yer see," 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 | to get into company with them as can," replied Noah. "They'll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer." "Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!" exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face. "There, that'll do: don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with yer," said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. "I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got, especially as we don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves." After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him. The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney. "A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?" "How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole. "We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles. "Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!" "Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth." Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger, a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner. "Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips. "Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or 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."<|quote|>"I didn't take it,"</|quote|>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 | Oliver Twist |
"I hardly consider that a fair deduction," | Henry | and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," said | the Porphyrion. We warn him, and--look!" Mr. Wilcox was annoyed.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," said Margaret. "I was only thinking | 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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, | 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, 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"I hardly consider that a fair deduction,"</|quote|>he said. "Obviously unfair," 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. | Howards End |
"Yes." | Hercule Poirot | his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And | "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not | lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, | if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence." "And that reason?" I asked sceptically. Poirot | that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous." He smiled. "You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely." "Another point how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?" "I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence." "And that reason?" I asked sceptically. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel but that does not of necessity make him a murderer." I shook my head, unconvinced. "We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?" "Well" I considered. "One must look at it logically." "True." "I should put it this | This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit." "I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they _had_ been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners for there were two sets of footprints in the bed had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition." "That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous." He smiled. "You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely." "Another point how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?" "I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence." "And that reason?" I asked sceptically. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel but that does not of necessity make him a murderer." I shook my head, unconvinced. "We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?" "Well" I considered. "One must look at it logically." "True." "I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted our own eyes have told us that yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so far?" "Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed." "Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband." Poirot shook his head. "Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room a most unusual proceeding on her part she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit." "But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?" "There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then." "Poirot, is that seriously your | he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet it fits in." I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent. "So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I remarked. "Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself." Poirot did not appear to be listening to me. "They have made one more discovery, _l -bas_," he observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told me as we were going upstairs." "What was it?" "Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants not Dorcas." "Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?" "He says not." "One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?" Poirot smiled. "_Mon ami_, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?" "Yes, often. I suppose everyone has." "Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word possessed' is spelt first with one s' and subsequently with two correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus:" I am possessed.' "Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word possessed' that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will (a document almost certain to contain that word) occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit." "I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they _had_ been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners for there were two sets of footprints in the bed had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition." "That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous." He smiled. "You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely." "Another point how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?" "I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence." "And that reason?" I asked sceptically. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel but that does not of necessity make him a murderer." I shook my head, unconvinced. "We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?" "Well" I considered. "One must look at it logically." "True." "I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted our own eyes have told us that yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so far?" "Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed." "Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband." Poirot shook his head. "Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room a most unusual proceeding on her part she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit." "But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?" "There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then." "Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?" "No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?" "I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair." "Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do." "It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account." A groan burst from Poirot. "What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory let the theory go." "Well, we shall see," I said, nettled. "Yes, we shall see." We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished. Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was extraordinary a curious mingling of terror and agitation. "Look, Poirot!" I said. He leant forward. "_Tiens!_" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He is coming here." The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door. "A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come." Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once. "Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'd just come back from the Hall?" "Yes, we have." The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously. "It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say" he lowered his voice cautiously "that it's poison?" Poirot's | edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word possessed' is spelt first with one s' and subsequently with two correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus:" I am possessed.' "Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word possessed' that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will (a document almost certain to contain that word) occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit." "I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they _had_ been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners for there were two sets of footprints in the bed had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition." "That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous." He smiled. "You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely." "Another point how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?" "I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case." "Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt." Poirot looked at me curiously. "You are very sure of his guilt?" "Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly." "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour." "Oh, come now!"<|quote|>"Yes."</|quote|>"I see only one." "And that?" "That he was not in the house last night." "Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him." "How is that?" "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence." "And that reason?" I asked sceptically. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel but that does not of necessity make him a murderer." I shook my head, unconvinced. "We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?" "Well" I considered. "One must look at it logically." "True." "I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted our own eyes have told us that yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so far?" "Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed." "Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
the subaltern cried. | No speaker | train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come | at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A | hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was | a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, | Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted | jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" | when he addressed several people than in a _t te- -t te._ "I want to talk specially to the ladies," he said. "Not the least cause for alarm. Keep cool, keep cool. Don't go out more than you can help, don't go into the city, don't talk before your servants. That's all." "Harry, is there any news from the city?" asked his wife, standing at some distance from him, and also assuming her public-safety voice. The rest were silent during the august colloquy. "Everything absolutely normal." "I had gathered as much. Those drums are merely Mohurram, of course." "Merely the preparations for it the Procession is not till next week." "Quite so, not till Monday." "Mr. McBryde's down there disguised as a Holy Man," said Mrs. Callendar. "That's exactly the sort of thing that must not be said," he remarked, pointing at her. "Mrs. Callendar, be more careful than that, please, in these times." "I . . . well, I . . ." She was not offended, his severity made her feel safe. "Any more questions? Necessary questions." "Is the where is he" Mrs. Lesley quavered. "Jail. Bail has been refused." Fielding spoke next. He wanted to know whether there was an official bulletin about Miss Quested's health, or whether the grave reports were due to gossip. His question produced a bad effect, partly because he had pronounced her name; she, like Aziz, was always referred to by a periphrasis. "I hope Callendar may be able to let us know how things are going before long." "I fail to see how that last question can be termed a necessary question," said Mrs. Turton. "Will all ladies leave the smoking-room now, please?" he cried, clapping his hands again. "And remember what I have said. We look to you to help us through a difficult time, and you can help us by behaving as if everything is normal. It is all I ask. Can I rely on you?" "Yes, indeed, Burra Sahib," they chorused out of peaked, anxious faces. They moved out, subdued yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?" "Temperature." "My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official | yet elated, Mrs. Blakiston in their midst like a sacred flame. His simple words had reminded them that they were an outpost of Empire. By the side of their compassionate love for Adela another sentiment sprang up which was to strangle it in the long run. Its first signs were prosaic and small. Mrs. Turton made her loud, hard jokes at bridge, Mrs. Lesley began to knit a comforter. When the smoking-room was clear, the Collector sat on the edge of a table, so that he could dominate without formality. His mind whirled with contradictory impulses. He wanted to avenge Miss Quested and punish Fielding, while remaining scrupulously fair. He wanted to flog every native that he saw, but to do nothing that would lead to a riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion,"<|quote|>the subaltern cried.</|quote|>"The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his | A Passage To India |
By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again. | No speaker | a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after | happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on | The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly | silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said | run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his | "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can | "I'll have those two back, dead or alive!" cried the captain, stamping about in his rage. "Pipe down the second cutter." His orders were obeyed, and in a short time, with a lanthorn in bow and stern, the second boat touched the water, and rowed off, the officer in command receiving instructions to bear off more still to the southward, and finally sweep round so as to meet the first boat. Directly this was started a happy thought seemed to strike the captain, who had a third boat lowered, with instructions to row right ashore, land the men, and divide them in two parties, which would strike off to right and left, stationing a man at every fifty yards; and these were to patrol the beach to and fro, keeping watch and a sharp look out for the fugitives. "That will checkmate them, Mr Jones," he said. "I wish I had thought of this before. Now go." Mr Bosun Jones was in command of this boat, and he gave orders to his men, the oars splashed, and away they went into the darkness, their lights growing fainter and fainter, till they seemed to be mere specks in the distance; but they did not die out, and as those left on deck watched the progress, they saw the lanthorns of the last boat become stationary, and knew that the men had reached the shore, while the lanthorns of the second cutter were faintly visible, moving slowly far away to the south. The captain rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and kept walking to the gangway and using his night-glass without any greater result than that of seeing a couple of faint specks of light, when he got the boats' lanthorns into the field. Then he listened in the hope of hearing shouts, which would suggest the capture of the fugitives; but half an hour--an hour--glided by, and all was still. The buzz and cries which had arisen from the collection of huts had ceased, and the lights shown there had been extinguished, while the darkness which hung over the sea appeared to grow more dense. At last there was a hail about a hundred yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I don't believe they can, sir; and if they can, they won't see us long. Shouldn't be surprised if they lowered a boat." "Ah! Look out!" whispered Don. "Shall we dive?" For he heard the clicking of the muskets as they missed fire. "Well, I do call that cowardly," said Jem, as he heard the order to load; "shooting at a couple of poor fellows just as if they was wild duck." "Swim faster, Jem," said Don, as he gazed back over his shoulders at the lights as the shots rang out. "No, no; swim slower, my lad. They can't see us; and if they could, I don't believe as the men would try and hit us. Ah! Not hit, are you?" "No, Jem; are you?" "Not a bit of it, my lad. There they go again. Steady. We're all right now, unless a boat comes after us. We shall soon get ashore at this rate, and the tide's helping up, and carrying us along." "Toward shore, Jem, or out to sea?" "Shore, of course," said Jem, as he swam on his side, and kept an eye on the faint lights of the ship. "Say, Mas' Don, they won't hang us, will they, if they ketches us?" "What made you say that?" "Because here comes a boat after us.--Hear the skipper?" "Yes; but the canoe--where is the canoe?" Don raised himself, and began to tread water, as he looked in the direction where they had seen the water flash beneath the paddles. "I dunno, my lad. Can't see nothing but the lights of the ship. Better swim straight ashore. We sha'n't be able to see no canoe to-night." They swam steadily on, hearing only too plainly the plans made for their recapture. The orders, the creaking of the falls, even the plash made by the boats, as they kissed the water, and the dull rattle of the oars in the rowlocks was carried in the silence of the night distinctly to their ears, while the regular plash, plash, plash, as the oars dipped, sent a thrill through Don, and at times seemed to chill his energy. But these checks were almost momentary. There was a sense of freedom in being away from the ship, and, in spite of the darkness, a feeling of joyous power in being able to breast | greater result than that of seeing a couple of faint specks of light, when he got the boats' lanthorns into the field. Then he listened in the hope of hearing shouts, which would suggest the capture of the fugitives; but half an hour--an hour--glided by, and all was still. The buzz and cries which had arisen from the collection of huts had ceased, and the lights shown there had been extinguished, while the darkness which hung over the sea appeared to grow more dense. At last there was a hail about a hundred yards away, and the officer in the first boat answered the captain's eager inquiry. "No, sir; no luck. Not a sign of any one. I'm afraid--" "They have got ashore and escaped?" "No, sir," said the lieutenant, gravely; "I don't think a man could swim ashore in this darkness and escape." "Why, the distance is very short!" "Yes, sir; but there are obstacles in the way." "Obstacles?" "Well, sir, I've seen some tremendous sharks about in the clear water; and I don't think any one could get any distance without having some of the brutes after him." A terrible silence followed this declaration, and the captain drew his breath hard. "Come aboard," he said. "It is too dark for further search to be made." The boat was rowed alongside, the falls lowered, the hooks adjusted, and she was hoisted up and swung inboard. "I'd give anything to capture the scoundrels," said the captain, after walking up and down for a few minutes with the lieutenant; "but I don't want the poor fellows to meet with such a fate as that. Do you think it likely?" "More than likely, sir," said the lieutenant, coldly. The captain turned aft, made his way to the quarter-deck, and remained there attentively watching shoreward to where he could faintly see the lights of the last boat. "We must leave further search till morning," muttered the captain; and giving his order, signal lamps were run up to recall the boats; and before very long they were answered, and the lanthorns of Bosun Jones' boat could soon after be seen heading slowly for the ship, the second boat following her example a few minutes later. "No signs of them, Mr Jones?" said the captain, as his warrant officer reached the deck to report himself. "No, sir," said the boatswain, sadly; "but I heard a sound, and one of my men heard it too." "A sound? What sound?" "Like a faint cry of distress, sir." "Yes; and what did you make of that?" The boatswain was silent a moment. "The harbour here swarms with sharks, sir, and the cry sounded to me like that of a man being drawn under water." "No, no; no, no; not so bad as that," said the captain, rather excitedly. "They've got to shore, and we will have them back to-morrow. The people will give them up either by threats or bribes." "I hope so, sir," said the boatswain, coldly. And, then, as he went below, "Poor lad! I'd have given a year of my life rather than it should have happened. This pressing is like a curse to the service."<|quote|>By this time the officer in the last boat had reported himself, the crews were dismissed, the watch set, and all was silence and darkness again.</|quote|>About dawn the captain, after an uneasy night, came on deck, glass in hand, to search the shore, and try to make out some sign of the fugitives; but just as he had focussed his glass, he caught sight of some one doing the very same thing, and going softly to the bows he found that the officer busy with the glass was Bosun Jones, who rose and saluted his superior. "See anything, Mr Jones?" the captain said. "No, sir; only the regular number of canoes drawn up on the beach." "Have you thought any more about what you said you heard last night?" "Yes, sir, a great deal." "But you don't think the poor lad met such a fate as you hinted at?" "Yes, sir, I do," said the boatswain sternly; "and I feel as if I had helped to bring him to such a death." "Mr Jones," said the captain, haughtily, "you merely did your duty as a warrant officer in the king's service. If that unfortunate boy met such a disastrous fate, it was in an attempt to desert." The captain closed his glass with a loud snap, and walked away, while Bosun Jones stood with his brow knit and his lips compressed, gazing straight before him as the sun rose and shed a flood of light over the glorious prospect. But to the bluff petty officer everything seemed sad and gloomy, and he went below seeing nothing but the frank, manly features of young Don Lavington, as he muttered to himself,-- "Not a chance of escape. Poor boy! Poor boy!" CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE FUGITIVES. Don and Jem plunged almost simultaneously into the black, cold water, and felt the sea thundering in their ears. Then Jem, being broader and stouter than his companion, rose to the surface and looked round for Don; but a few seconds of agony ensued before the water parted and the lad's head shot up into the faint light shed by the lanthorns. "Now for it, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "think as it's a race, and we're going to win a cup at a 'gatta. Slow and sure, sir; slow and sure, long, steady strokes, and keep together." "They're calling to us to stop, Jem," whispered Don. "Let 'em call, Mas' Don. Somebody else seems a-calling of me, and that's my Sally. Oh, don't I wish I hadn't got any clothes." "Can they see us?" whispered Don, as they swam steadily on. "I | Don Lavington |
"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!" | Elizabeth | which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, | we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ | Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to | thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself | cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself with ""And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care | at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself with ""And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his | even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself with ""And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure." The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern | pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me."<|quote|>"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"</|quote|>After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself with ""And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has | Pride And Prejudice |
"We'd better go up and lunch," | Dr Messinger | editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had | handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at | Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold | yet." "You'd like him--a very straight fellow. He used to do quite a lot, selling ammunition to the Atlas caids before the pacification. Of course it was easy money with the capitulations, but he did it better than most of them. I believe he's running a restaurant now in Mogador." Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold steak and kidney pie. They sat at a window in the big dining-room upstairs. The places round them were soon filled with members, who even carried the tradition of general conversation so far as to lean back in their chairs and chat over their shoulders from table to table--a practice | you know, or for trade, and they are not easy to buy nowadays. Have you ever tried?" "No." "Well you can take it from me that it's not easy. You can't just walk into a shop and order machine guns." "No, I suppose not." "Still, at a pinch I can do without them. But I can't do without two hundred pounds." Tony had, open on his knee, a photograph of the harbour at Agadir. Dr Messinger looked over his shoulder at it. "Ah yes," he said, "interesting little place. I expect you know Zingermaun there?" "No, I've not been there yet." "You'd like him--a very straight fellow. He used to do quite a lot, selling ammunition to the Atlas caids before the pacification. Of course it was easy money with the capitulations, but he did it better than most of them. I believe he's running a restaurant now in Mogador." Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold steak and kidney pie. They sat at a window in the big dining-room upstairs. The places round them were soon filled with members, who even carried the tradition of general conversation so far as to lean back in their chairs and chat over their shoulders from table to table--a practice which greatly hindered the already imperfect service. But Tony remained oblivious to all that was said, absorbed in what Dr Messinger was telling him. "...You see, there has been a continuous tradition about the City since the first explorers of the sixteenth century. It has been variously allocated, sometimes down in Matto Grosso, sometimes on the upper Orinoco in what is now Venezuela. I myself used to think it lay somewhere on the Uraricuera. I was out there last year and it was then that I established contact with the Pie-wie Indians; no white man had ever visited them and | and surrounded with his illustrated folders, he was addressed by a member unknown to him who asked if he were thinking of going away. He was more surprised when he looked up and studied the questioner. Dr Messinger, though quite young, was bearded, and Tony knew few young men with beards. He was also very small, very sunburned and prematurely bald; the ruddy brown of his face ended abruptly along the line of his forehead, which rose in a pale dome; he wore steel-rimmed spectacles and there was something about his blue serge suit which suggested that the wearer found it uncomfortable. Tony admitted that he was considering taking a cruise. "I am going away shortly," said Dr Messinger, "to Brazil. At least it may be Brazil or Dutch Guiana. One cannot tell. The frontier has never been demarcated. I ought to have started last week, only my plans were upset. Do you by any chance know a Nicaraguan calling himself alternately Ponsonby and FitzClarence?" "No, I don't think I do." "You are fortunate. That man has just robbed me of two hundred pounds and some machine guns." "Machine guns?" "Yes, I travel with one or two, mostly for show, you know, or for trade, and they are not easy to buy nowadays. Have you ever tried?" "No." "Well you can take it from me that it's not easy. You can't just walk into a shop and order machine guns." "No, I suppose not." "Still, at a pinch I can do without them. But I can't do without two hundred pounds." Tony had, open on his knee, a photograph of the harbour at Agadir. Dr Messinger looked over his shoulder at it. "Ah yes," he said, "interesting little place. I expect you know Zingermaun there?" "No, I've not been there yet." "You'd like him--a very straight fellow. He used to do quite a lot, selling ammunition to the Atlas caids before the pacification. Of course it was easy money with the capitulations, but he did it better than most of them. I believe he's running a restaurant now in Mogador." Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold steak and kidney pie. They sat at a window in the big dining-room upstairs. The places round them were soon filled with members, who even carried the tradition of general conversation so far as to lean back in their chairs and chat over their shoulders from table to table--a practice which greatly hindered the already imperfect service. But Tony remained oblivious to all that was said, absorbed in what Dr Messinger was telling him. "...You see, there has been a continuous tradition about the City since the first explorers of the sixteenth century. It has been variously allocated, sometimes down in Matto Grosso, sometimes on the upper Orinoco in what is now Venezuela. I myself used to think it lay somewhere on the Uraricuera. I was out there last year and it was then that I established contact with the Pie-wie Indians; no white man had ever visited them and got out alive. And it was from the Pie-wies that I learned where to look. None of them had ever visited the City, of course, but they _knew about it_. Every Indian between Ciudad Bolivar and Para knows about it. But they won't talk. Queer people. But I became blood-brother with a Pie-wie--interesting ceremony. They buried me up to the neck in mud and all the women of the tribe spat on my head. Then we ate a toad and snake and a beetle and after that I was blood-brother--well, he told me that the City lies between the head waters of the Courantyne and the Takutu. There's a vast track of unexplored country there. I've often thought of visiting it." "I've been looking up the historical side too, and I more or less know how the City got there. It was the result of a migration from Peru at the beginning of the fifteenth century, when the Incas were at the height of their power. It is mentioned in all the early Spanish documents as a popular legend. One of the younger princes rebelled and led his people off into the forest. Most of the tribes had a tradition | for a few shillings and given it to a girl in Munich who spoke no English.) Later still his honeymoon with Brenda in a villa, lent to them, on the Italian Riviera. (...Cypress and olive trees, a domed church half-way down the hill, between the villa and the harbour, a caf? where they sat out in the evening, watching the fishing-boats and the lights reflected in the quiet water, waiting for the sudden agitation of sound and motion as the speed-boat came in. It had been owned by a dashing young official, who called it _Jazz Girl_. He seemed to spend twenty hours a day running in and out of the little harbour...) Once Brenda and he had gone to Le Touquet with Bratt's golf team. That was all. After his father died he had not left England. They could not easily afford it; it was one of the things they postponed until death duties were paid off; besides that, he was never happy away from Hetton, and Brenda did not like leaving John Andrew. Thus Tony had no very ambitious ideas about travel, and when he decided to go abroad his first act was to call at a tourist agency and come away laden with a sheaf of brightly coloured prospectuses, which advertised commodious cruises among palm trees, Negresses and ruined arches. He was going away because it seemed to be the conduct expected of a husband in his circumstances, because the associations of Hetton were for the time poisoned for him, because he wanted to live for a few months away from people who would know him or Brenda, in places where there was no expectation of meeting her or Beaver or Reggie St Cloud at every corner he frequented, and, with this feeling of evasion dominant in his mind, he took the prospectuses to read at the Greville Club. He had been a member there for some years, but rarely used it; his resignation was postponed only by his recurrent omission to cancel the banker's order for his subscription. Now that Bratt's and Brown's were distasteful to him he felt thankful that he had kept on with the Greville. It was a club of intellectual flavour, composed of dons, a few writers and the officials of museums and learned societies. It had a tradition of garrulity, so that he was not surprised when, seated in an armchair and surrounded with his illustrated folders, he was addressed by a member unknown to him who asked if he were thinking of going away. He was more surprised when he looked up and studied the questioner. Dr Messinger, though quite young, was bearded, and Tony knew few young men with beards. He was also very small, very sunburned and prematurely bald; the ruddy brown of his face ended abruptly along the line of his forehead, which rose in a pale dome; he wore steel-rimmed spectacles and there was something about his blue serge suit which suggested that the wearer found it uncomfortable. Tony admitted that he was considering taking a cruise. "I am going away shortly," said Dr Messinger, "to Brazil. At least it may be Brazil or Dutch Guiana. One cannot tell. The frontier has never been demarcated. I ought to have started last week, only my plans were upset. Do you by any chance know a Nicaraguan calling himself alternately Ponsonby and FitzClarence?" "No, I don't think I do." "You are fortunate. That man has just robbed me of two hundred pounds and some machine guns." "Machine guns?" "Yes, I travel with one or two, mostly for show, you know, or for trade, and they are not easy to buy nowadays. Have you ever tried?" "No." "Well you can take it from me that it's not easy. You can't just walk into a shop and order machine guns." "No, I suppose not." "Still, at a pinch I can do without them. But I can't do without two hundred pounds." Tony had, open on his knee, a photograph of the harbour at Agadir. Dr Messinger looked over his shoulder at it. "Ah yes," he said, "interesting little place. I expect you know Zingermaun there?" "No, I've not been there yet." "You'd like him--a very straight fellow. He used to do quite a lot, selling ammunition to the Atlas caids before the pacification. Of course it was easy money with the capitulations, but he did it better than most of them. I believe he's running a restaurant now in Mogador." Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold steak and kidney pie. They sat at a window in the big dining-room upstairs. The places round them were soon filled with members, who even carried the tradition of general conversation so far as to lean back in their chairs and chat over their shoulders from table to table--a practice which greatly hindered the already imperfect service. But Tony remained oblivious to all that was said, absorbed in what Dr Messinger was telling him. "...You see, there has been a continuous tradition about the City since the first explorers of the sixteenth century. It has been variously allocated, sometimes down in Matto Grosso, sometimes on the upper Orinoco in what is now Venezuela. I myself used to think it lay somewhere on the Uraricuera. I was out there last year and it was then that I established contact with the Pie-wie Indians; no white man had ever visited them and got out alive. And it was from the Pie-wies that I learned where to look. None of them had ever visited the City, of course, but they _knew about it_. Every Indian between Ciudad Bolivar and Para knows about it. But they won't talk. Queer people. But I became blood-brother with a Pie-wie--interesting ceremony. They buried me up to the neck in mud and all the women of the tribe spat on my head. Then we ate a toad and snake and a beetle and after that I was blood-brother--well, he told me that the City lies between the head waters of the Courantyne and the Takutu. There's a vast track of unexplored country there. I've often thought of visiting it." "I've been looking up the historical side too, and I more or less know how the City got there. It was the result of a migration from Peru at the beginning of the fifteenth century, when the Incas were at the height of their power. It is mentioned in all the early Spanish documents as a popular legend. One of the younger princes rebelled and led his people off into the forest. Most of the tribes had a tradition in one form or another of a strange race passing through their territory." "But what do you suppose this city will be like?" "Impossible to say. Every tribe has a different word for it. The Pie-wies call it the 'Shining' or 'Glittering', the Arekuna the 'Many Watered', the Patamonas the 'Bright Feathered', the Warau, oddly enough, use the same word for it that they use for a kind of aromatic jam they make. Of course, one can't tell how a civilization may have developed or degenerated in five hundred years of isolation..." Before Tony left the Greville that day, he tore up his sheaf of cruise prospectuses, for he had arranged to join Dr Messinger in his expedition. * * * * * "Done much of that kind of thing?" "No, to tell you the truth it is the first time." "Ah. Well, I daresay it's more interesting than it sounds," conceded the genial passenger, "else people wouldn't do it so much." The ship, so far as any consideration of comfort had contributed to her design, was planned for the tropics. It was slightly colder in the smoking-room than on deck. Tony went to his cabin and retrieved his cap and greatcoat; then he went aft again, to the place where he had sat before dinner. It was a starless night and nothing was visible beyond the small luminous area round the ship, save for a single lighthouse that flashed short-long, short-long, far away on the port bow. The crests of the waves caught the reflection from the promenade deck and shone for a moment before plunging away into the black depths behind. The beagles were awake, whining. For some days now Tony had been thoughtless about the events of the immediate past. His mind was occupied with the City, the Shining, the Many Watered, the Bright Feathered, the Aromatic Jam. He had a clear picture of it in his mind. It was Gothic in character, all vanes and pinnacles, gargoyles, battlements, groining and tracery, pavilions and terraces, a transfigured Hetton, pennons and banners floating on the sweet breeze, everything luminous and translucent; a coral citadel crowning a green hill-top sown with daisies, among groves and streams; a tapestry landscape filled with heraldic and fabulous animals and symmetrical, disproportionate blossom. The ship tossed and tunnelled through the dark waters towards this radiant sanctuary. "I wonder if anyone is doing anything | robbed me of two hundred pounds and some machine guns." "Machine guns?" "Yes, I travel with one or two, mostly for show, you know, or for trade, and they are not easy to buy nowadays. Have you ever tried?" "No." "Well you can take it from me that it's not easy. You can't just walk into a shop and order machine guns." "No, I suppose not." "Still, at a pinch I can do without them. But I can't do without two hundred pounds." Tony had, open on his knee, a photograph of the harbour at Agadir. Dr Messinger looked over his shoulder at it. "Ah yes," he said, "interesting little place. I expect you know Zingermaun there?" "No, I've not been there yet." "You'd like him--a very straight fellow. He used to do quite a lot, selling ammunition to the Atlas caids before the pacification. Of course it was easy money with the capitulations, but he did it better than most of them. I believe he's running a restaurant now in Mogador." Then he continued dreamily, "The pity is I can't let the R.G.S. in on this expedition. I've got to find the money privately." It was one o'clock and the room was beginning to fill up; an Egyptologist was exhibiting a handkerchief-ful of scarabs to the editor of a church weekly.<|quote|>"We'd better go up and lunch,"</|quote|>said Dr Messinger. Tony had not intended to lunch at the Greville but there was something compelling about the invitation; moreover, he had no other engagement. Dr Messinger lunched off apples and a rice pudding. (" "I have to be very careful what I eat," he said.) Tony ate cold steak and kidney pie. They sat at a window in the big dining-room upstairs. The places round them were soon filled with members, who even carried the tradition of general conversation so far as to lean back in their chairs and chat over their shoulders from table to table--a practice which greatly hindered the already imperfect service. But Tony remained oblivious to all that was said, absorbed in what Dr Messinger was telling him. "...You see, there has been a continuous tradition about the City since the first explorers of the sixteenth century. It has been variously allocated, sometimes down in Matto Grosso, sometimes on the upper Orinoco in what is now Venezuela. I myself used to think it lay somewhere on the Uraricuera. I was out there last year and it was then that I established contact with the Pie-wie Indians; no white man had ever visited them and got out alive. And it was from the Pie-wies that I learned where to look. None of them had ever visited the City, of course, but they _knew about it_. Every Indian between Ciudad Bolivar and Para knows about it. But they won't talk. Queer people. But I became blood-brother with a Pie-wie--interesting ceremony. They buried me up to the neck in mud and all the women of the tribe spat on my head. Then we ate a toad and snake and a beetle and after that I was blood-brother--well, he told me that the City lies between the head waters of the Courantyne and the Takutu. There's a vast track of unexplored country there. I've often thought of visiting it." "I've been looking up the historical side too, and I more or less know how the City got there. It was the result of a migration from Peru at the beginning of the fifteenth century, when the Incas were at the height of their power. It is mentioned in all the early Spanish documents as a popular legend. One of the younger princes rebelled and led his people off into the forest. Most of the tribes had a tradition in one form or another of a strange race passing through their territory." "But what do you suppose this city will be like?" "Impossible to say. Every tribe has a different word for it. The Pie-wies call it the 'Shining' or 'Glittering', the Arekuna the 'Many Watered', the Patamonas the 'Bright Feathered', the Warau, oddly enough, use the same word for it that they use for a kind of aromatic jam they make. Of course, one can't tell how a civilization may have developed or degenerated in five hundred years of isolation..." Before Tony left the Greville that day, he tore up his sheaf of cruise prospectuses, for he had arranged to join Dr Messinger in his expedition. * * * * * "Done much of that kind of thing?" "No, to tell you the truth it is the first time." "Ah. Well, I daresay it's more interesting than it sounds," conceded the genial passenger, "else people wouldn't do it so much." The ship, so far as any consideration of comfort had contributed to her design, was planned for the | A Handful Of Dust |
"What is his sorrow?" | Alice | break. She pitied him deeply.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>she asked the Gryphon, and | as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly | 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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud | 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!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was." "I never went to him," the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to | began in a low, weak voice. "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.<|quote|>"What is his sorrow?"</|quote|>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 called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
"Found 'em?" | Bosun Jones | he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his | instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair | bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear | might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's | cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their | go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next | "Stand fast. All sham. He can't see." Don paused, wondering, and watched the dark figure in the entrance to the cave, without dismay now, till, to his surprise, the man began to whistle softly. "Likely place too," he muttered. "Are you coming up here, sir?" "What is it?" "Likely looking cave, sir; runs right in; looks as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how | beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there.<|quote|>"Found 'em?"</|quote|>shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking," said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. "So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the | Don Lavington |
said another gentleman. | No speaker | smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the | wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it | jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's | pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman | boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We | the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the | waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him. Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "Wo o!" said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. "You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men," said Gamfield, wavering. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way. "Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver." "A prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling. "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to "prentice" you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! three pound ten, Oliver! seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love." As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after | set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself. It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on the gate. "Wo o!" said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey. The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward. Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill. The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield. "Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a condescending smile. "What of him?" "If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 'prentis, and I am ready to take him." "Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first seen him. "It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his wish. "Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,"<|quote|>said another gentleman.</|quote|>"That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves." The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," "looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it." "Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Decidedly not," added the other members. As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table. "So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door. "No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered." Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said, "What'll you give, gen'l'men? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll you give?" "I should say, three pound ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins. "Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'l'men. Say four pound, and you've got rid of him for good and all. There!" "Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come! I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. "You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men," said Gamfield, wavering. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed | Oliver Twist |
"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand." | Dr. Aziz | said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts | you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped | a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal | He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence." But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to | "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence." But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; | a poet, and fought against you in the Mutiny. I might equal him if there was another mutiny. As it is, I am a doctor, who has won a case and has three children to support, and whose chief subject of conversation is official plans." "Let us talk about poetry." He turned his mind to the innocuous subject. "You people are sadly circumstanced. Whatever are you to write about? You cannot say," The rose is faded,' "for evermore. We know it's faded. Yet you can't have patriotic poetry of the India, my India' type, when it's nobody's India." "I like this conversation. It may lead to something interesting." "You are quite right in thinking that poetry must touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence." But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose. "Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in | the only surviving female. He talked to McBryde, who was defiant about his divorce, conscious that he had sinned as a sahib. He talked to Major Roberts, the new Civil Surgeon; and to young Milner, the new City Magistrate; but the more the club changed, the more it promised to be the same thing. "It is no good," he thought, as he returned past the mosque, "we all build upon sand; and the more modern the country gets, the worse'll be the crash. In the old eighteenth century, when cruelty and injustice raged, an invisible power repaired their ravages. Everything echoes now; there's no stopping the echo. The original sound may be harmless, but the echo is always evil." This reflection about an echo lay at the verge of Fielding's mind. He could never develop it. It belonged to the universe that he had missed or rejected. And the mosque missed it too. Like himself, those shallow arcades provided but a limited asylum. "There is no God but God" doesn't carry us far through the complexities of matter and spirit; it is only a game with words, really, a religious pun, not a religious truth. He found Aziz overtired and dispirited, and he determined not to allude to their misunderstanding until the end of the evening; it would be more acceptable then. He made a clean breast about the club said he had only gone under compulsion, and should never attend again unless the order was renewed. "In other words, probably never; for I am going quite soon to England." "I thought you might end in England," he said very quietly, then changed the conversation. Rather awkwardly they ate their dinner, then went out to sit in the Mogul garden-house. "I am only going for a little time. On official business. My service is anxious to get me away from Chandrapore for a bit. It is obliged to value me highly, but does not care for me. The situation is somewhat humorous." "What is the nature of the business? Will it leave you much spare time?" "Enough to see my friends." "I expected you to make such a reply. You are a faithful friend. Shall we now talk about something else?" "Willingly. What subject?" "Poetry," he said, with tears in his eyes. "Let us discuss why poetry has lost the power of making men brave. My mother's father was also a poet, and fought against you in the Mutiny. I might equal him if there was another mutiny. As it is, I am a doctor, who has won a case and has three children to support, and whose chief subject of conversation is official plans." "Let us talk about poetry." He turned his mind to the innocuous subject. "You people are sadly circumstanced. Whatever are you to write about? You cannot say," The rose is faded,' "for evermore. We know it's faded. Yet you can't have patriotic poetry of the India, my India' type, when it's nobody's India." "I like this conversation. It may lead to something interesting." "You are quite right in thinking that poetry must touch life. When I knew you first, you used it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence." But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose. "Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, but killed it by cutting it in two, bad, because it becomes two snakes. "When he breaks a plate, does it become two plates?" "Glasses and a new teapot will similarly be required, also for myself a coat." Aziz sighed. Each for himself. One man needs a coat, another a rich wife; each approaches his goal by a clever detour. Fielding had saved the girl a fine of twenty thousand rupees, and now followed her to England. If he desired to marry her, all was explained; she would bring him a larger dowry. Aziz did not believe his own suspicions better if he had, for then he would have denounced and cleared the situation up. Suspicion and belief could in his mind exist side by side. They sprang from different sources, and need never intermingle. Suspicion in the Oriental is a sort of malignant tumour, a mental malady, that makes him self-conscious and unfriendly suddenly; he trusts and mistrusts at the same time in a way the Westerner cannot comprehend. It is his demon, as the Westerner's is hypocrisy. Aziz was seized by it, and his fancy built a satanic castle, of which the foundation had been laid when he talked at Dilkusha under the stars. The girl had surely been Cyril's mistress when she stopped in the College Mohammed Latif was right. But was that all? Perhaps it was Cyril who followed her into the cave. . . . No; impossible. Cyril hadn't been on the Kawa Dol at all. Impossible. Ridiculous. Yet the fancy left him trembling with misery. Such treachery if true would have been the worst in Indian history; nothing so vile, not even the murder of Afzul Khan by Sivaji. He was shaken, as though by a truth, and told Hassan to leave him. Next day he decided to take his children back to Mussoorie. They had come down for the trial, that he might bid them farewell, and had stayed on at Hamidullah's for the rejoicings. Major Roberts would give him leave, and during his absence Fielding would go off to England. The idea suited both his beliefs and his suspicions. Events would prove which was right, and preserve, in either case, his dignity. Fielding was conscious of something hostile, and because he was really fond of Aziz his optimism failed him. Travelling light is less easy as soon as affection is involved. Unable to jog forward in the serene hope that all would come right, he wrote an elaborate letter in the rather modern style: "It is on my mind that you think me a prude about women. I had rather you thought anything else of me. If I live impeccably now, it is only because I am well on the forties a period of revision. In the eighties I shall revise again. And before the nineties come I shall be revised! But, alive or dead, I am absolutely devoid of morals. Do kindly grasp this about me." Aziz did not care for the letter at all. It hurt his delicacy. He liked confidences, however gross, but generalizations and comparisons always repelled him. Life is not a scientific manual. He replied coldly, regretting his inability to return from Mussoorie before | it as an incantation." "I was a child when you knew me first. Everyone was my friend then. The Friend: a Persian expression for God. But I do not want to be a religious poet either." "I hoped you would be." "Why, when you yourself are an atheist?" "There is something in religion that may not be true, but has not yet been sung." "Explain in detail." "Something that the Hindus have perhaps found." "Let them sing it." "Hindus are unable to sing." "Cyril, you sometimes make a sensible remark. That will do for poetry for the present. Let us now return to your English visit." "We haven't discussed poetry for two seconds," said the other, smiling. But Aziz was addicted to cameos. He held the tiny conversation in his hand, and felt it epitomized his problem. For an instant he recalled his wife, and, as happens when a memory is intense, the past became the future, and he saw her with him in a quiet Hindu jungle native state, far away from foreigners. He said: "I suppose you will visit Miss Quested." "If I have time. It will be strange seeing her in Hampstead." "What is Hampstead?" "An artistic and thoughtful little suburb of London" "And there she lives in comfort: you will enjoy seeing her. . . . Dear me, I've got a headache this evening. Perhaps I am going to have cholera. With your permission, I'll leave early." "When would you like the carriage?" "Don't trouble I'll bike." "But you haven't got your bicycle. My carriage fetched you let it take you away." "Sound reasoning," he said, trying to be gay.<|quote|>"I have not got my bicycle. But I am seen too often in your carriage. I am thought to take advantage of your generosity by Mr. Ram Chand."</|quote|>He was out of sorts and uneasy. The conversation jumped from topic to topic in a broken-backed fashion. They were affectionate and intimate, but nothing clicked tight. "Aziz, you have forgiven me the stupid remark I made this morning?" "When you called me a little rotter?" "Yes, to my eternal confusion. You know how fond I am of you." "That is nothing, of course, we all of us make mistakes. In a friendship such as ours a few slips are of no consequence." But as he drove off, something depressed him a dull pain of body or mind, waiting to rise to the surface. When he reached the bungalow he wanted to return and say something very affectionate; instead, he gave the sais a heavy tip, and sat down gloomily on the bed, and Hassan massaged him incompetently. The eye-flies had colonized the top of an almeira; the red stains on the durry were thicker, for Mohammed Latif had slept here during his imprisonment and spat a good deal; the table drawer was scarred where the police had forced it open; everything in Chandrapore was used up, including the air. The trouble rose to the surface now: he was suspicious; he suspected his friend of intending to marry Miss Quested for the sake of her money, and of going to England for that purpose. "Huzoor?" for he had muttered. "Look at those flies on the ceiling. Why have you not drowned them?" "Huzoor, they return." "Like all evil things." To divert the conversation, Hassan related how the kitchen-boy had killed a snake, good, | A Passage To India |
A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him. | No speaker | me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said | it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm | the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be | from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter | her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the | will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face." The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened | old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince Charming! Prince of life! I have grown sick of shadows. You are more to me than all art can ever be. What have I to do with the puppets of a play? When I came on to-night, I could not understand how it was that everything had gone from me. I thought that I was going to be wonderful. I found that I could do nothing. Suddenly it dawned on my soul what it all meant. The knowledge was exquisite to me. I heard them hissing, and I smiled. What could they know of love such as ours? Take me away, Dorian take me away with you, where we can be quite alone. I hate the stage. I might mimic a passion that I do not feel, but I cannot mimic one that burns me like fire. Oh, Dorian, Dorian, you understand now what it signifies? Even if I could do it, it would be profanation for me to play at being in love. You have made me see that." He flung himself down on the sofa and turned away his face. "You have killed my love," he muttered. She looked at him in wonder and laughed. He made no answer. She came across to him, and with her little fingers stroked his hair. She knelt down and pressed his hands to her lips. He drew them away, and a shudder ran through him. Then he leaped up and went to the door. "Yes," he cried, "you have killed my love. You used to stir my imagination. Now you don t even stir my curiosity. You simply produce no effect. I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art. You have thrown it all away. You are shallow and stupid. My God! how mad I was to love you! What a fool I have been! You are nothing to me now. I will never see you again. I will never think of you. I will never mention your name. You don t know what you were to me, once. Why, once ... Oh, I can t bear to think of it! I wish I had never laid eyes upon you! You have spoiled the romance of my life. How little you can know of love, if you say it mars your art! Without your art, you are nothing. I would have made you famous, splendid, magnificent. The world would have worshipped you, and you would have borne my name. What are you now? A third-rate actress with a pretty face." The girl grew white, and trembled. She clenched her hands together, and her voice seemed to catch in her throat. "You are not serious, Dorian?" she murmured. "You are acting." "Acting! I leave that to you. You do it so well," he answered bitterly. She rose from her knees and, with a piteous expression of pain in her face, came across the room to him. She put her hand upon his arm and looked into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge s barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. Finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. In the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. The expression looked different. One would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. It was certainly strange. He turned round and, walking to the window, drew up the blind. The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering. But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even. The quivering ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing. He winced and, taking up from the table an oval glass framed in ivory Cupids, one of Lord Henry s many presents to him, glanced hurriedly into its polished depths. No line like that warped his red lips. What did it mean? He rubbed his eyes, and came close to the picture, and examined it again. There were no signs of any change when he looked into the actual painting, and yet there was no | into his eyes. He thrust her back. "Don t touch me!" he cried. A low moan broke from her, and she flung herself at his feet and lay there like a trampled flower. "Dorian, Dorian, don t leave me!" she whispered. "I am so sorry I didn t act well. I was thinking of you all the time. But I will try indeed, I will try. It came so suddenly across me, my love for you. I think I should never have known it if you had not kissed me if we had not kissed each other. Kiss me again, my love. Don t go away from me. I couldn t bear it. Oh! don t go away from me. My brother ... No; never mind. He didn t mean it. He was in jest.... But you, oh! can t you forgive me for to-night? I will work so hard and try to improve. Don t be cruel to me, because I love you better than anything in the world. After all, it is only once that I have not pleased you. But you are quite right, Dorian. I should have shown myself more of an artist. It was foolish of me, and yet I couldn t help it. Oh, don t leave me, don t leave me."<|quote|>A fit of passionate sobbing choked her. She crouched on the floor like a wounded thing, and Dorian Gray, with his beautiful eyes, looked down at her, and his chiselled lips curled in exquisite disdain. There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love. Sibyl Vane seemed to him to be absurdly melodramatic. Her tears and sobs annoyed him.</|quote|>"I am going," he said at last in his calm clear voice. "I don t wish to be unkind, but I can t see you again. You have disappointed me." She wept silently, and made no answer, but crept nearer. Her little hands stretched blindly out, and appeared to be seeking for him. He turned on his heel and left the room. In a few moments he was out of the theatre. Where he went to he hardly knew. He remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. Women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. Drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. He had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts. As the dawn was just breaking, he found himself close to Covent Garden. The darkness lifted, and, flushed with faint fires, the sky hollowed itself into a perfect pearl. Huge carts filled with nodding lilies rumbled slowly down the polished empty street. The air was heavy with the perfume of the flowers, and their beauty seemed to bring him an anodyne for his pain. He followed into the market and watched the men unloading their waggons. A white-smocked carter offered him some cherries. He thanked him, wondered why he refused to accept any money for them, and began to eat them listlessly. They had been plucked at midnight, and the coldness of the moon had entered into them. A long line of boys carrying crates of striped tulips, and of yellow and red roses, defiled in front of him, threading their way through the huge, jade-green piles of vegetables. Under the portico, with its grey, sun-bleached pillars, loitered a troop of draggled bareheaded girls, waiting for the auction to be over. Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds. After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet riband, through the nacre-coloured air. In the huge gilt Venetian lantern, spoil of some Doge s barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. He turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious Renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at Selby Royal. As he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait Basil Hallward had painted of him. He started back as if in surprise. Then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. After he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!” | Crimble | with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way | and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of | Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m | resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; | balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of | when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything--of your best!--ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there _is_ such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.” “Well, it _was_, to me, half an hour ago,” she said as she came nearer. “But if it has since come up?” “‘If’ it has! But _has_ it? In the form of that monster? What Mr. Bender wants is the great Duchess,” he recalled. “And my father won’t sell _her_? No, he won’t sell the great Duchess--there I feel safe. But he greatly needs a certain sum of money--or he thinks he does--and I’ve just had a talk with him.” “In which he has told you that?” “He has told me nothing,” Lady Grace said-- “or else told me quite other things. But the more I think of them the more it comes to me that he feels urged | what I always _hate_ to do: deviate from my normal practice of never intermeddling. If I’ve deviated now you can judge. But to do so all round, of course, take--in reason!--your time.” “May I ask then,” she said, “for still a little more?” He looked for this, verily, as if it was not in reason. “You know,” he then returned, “what he’ll feel that a sign of.” “Well, I’ll tell him what I mean.” “Then I’ll send him to you.” He glanced at his watch and was going, but after a “Thanks, father,” she had stopped him. “There’s one thing more.” An embarrassment showed in her manner, but at the cost of some effect of earnest abruptness she surmounted it. “What does your American--Mr. Bender--want?” Lord Theign plainly felt the challenge. “‘My’ American? He’s none of mine!” “Well then Lord John’s.” “He’s none of his either--more, I mean, than any one else’s. He’s every one’s American, literally--to all appearance; and I’ve not to tell _you_, surely, with the freedom of your own visitors, how people stalk in and out here.” “No, father--certainly,” she said. “You’re splendidly generous.” His eyes seemed rather sharply to ask her then how he could improve on that; but he added as if it were enough: “What the man must by this time want more than anything else is his car.” “Not then anything of ours?” she still insisted. “Of ‘ours’?” he echoed with a frown. “Are you afraid he has an eye to something of _yours?_” “Why, if we’ve a new treasure--which we certainly have if we possess a Mantovano--haven’t we all, even I, an immense interest in it?” And before he could answer, “Is _that_ exposed?” she asked. Lord Theign, a little unready, cast about at his storied halls; any illusion to the “exposure” of the objects they so solidly sheltered was obviously unpleasant to him. But then it was as if he found at a stroke both his own reassurance and his daughter’s. “How can there be a question of it when he only wants Sir Joshuas?” “He wants ours?” the girl gasped. “At absolutely any price.” “But you’re not,” she cried, “discussing it?” He hesitated as between chiding and contenting her--then he handsomely chose. “My dear child, for what do you take me?” With which he impatiently started, through the long and stately perspective, for the saloon. She sank into a chair when he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. And then as her face seemed to challenge the word: “Why, to let anything--of your best!--ever leave Dedborough. By which I mean really of course leave the country.” She turned again on this, and something in her air made him wonder. “I hope you don’t feel there _is_ such a danger? I understood from you half an hour ago that it was unthinkable.” “Well, it _was_, to me, half an hour ago,” she said as she came nearer. “But if it has since come up?” “‘If’ it has! But _has_ it? In the form of that monster? What Mr. Bender wants is the great Duchess,” he recalled. “And my father won’t sell _her_? No, he won’t sell the great Duchess--there I feel safe. But he greatly needs a certain sum of money--or he thinks he does--and I’ve just had a talk with him.” “In which he has told you that?” “He has told me nothing,” Lady Grace said-- “or else told me quite other things. But the more I think of them the more it comes to me that he feels urged or tempted--” “To despoil and denude these walls?” Hugh broke in, looking about in his sharper apprehension. “Yes, to satisfy, to save my sister. _Now_ do you think our state so ideal?” she asked--but without elation for her hint of triumph. He had no answer for this save “Ah, but you terribly interest me. May I ask what’s the matter with your sister?” Oh, she wanted to go on straight now! “The matter is--in the first place--that she’s too dazzlingly, dreadfully beautiful.” “More beautiful than you?” his sincerity easily risked. “Millions of times.” Sad, almost sombre, she hadn’t a shade of coquetry. “Kitty has debts--great heaped-up gaming debts.” “But to such amounts?” “Incredible amounts it appears. And mountains of others too. She throws herself all on our father.” “And he _has_ to pay them? There’s no one else?” Hugh asked. She waited as if he might answer himself, and then as he apparently didn’t, “He’s only afraid there _may_ be some else--that’s how she makes him do it,” she said. And “Now do you think,” she pursued, “that I don’t tell you things?” He turned them over in his young perception and pity, the things she told him. “Oh, oh, oh!” And then, in the great place, while as, just spent by the effort of her disclosure, she moved from him again, he took them all in. “That’s the situation that, as you say, may force his hand.” “It absolutely, I feel, does force it.” And the renewal of her appeal brought her round. “Isn’t it too lovely?” His frank disgust answered. “It’s too damnable!” “And it’s you,” she quite terribly smiled, “who--by the ‘irony of fate’!--have given him help.” He smote his head in the light of it. “By the Mantovano?” “By the possible Mantovano--as a substitute for the impossible Sir Joshua. You’ve made him aware of a value.” “Ah, but the value’s to be fixed!” “Then Mr. Bender will fix it!” “Oh, but--as he himself would say--I’ll fix Mr. Bender!” Hugh declared. “And he won’t buy a pig in a poke.” This cleared the air while they looked at each other; yet she had already asked: “What in the world can you do, and how in the world can you do it?” Well, he was too excited for decision. “I don’t quite see now, but give me time.” And he took out his watch as already to measure | he had gone; she sat there some moments in a visible tension of thought, her hands clasped in her lap and her dropped eyes fixed and unperceiving; but she sprang up as Hugh Crimble, in search of her, again stood before her. He presented himself as with winged sandals. “What luck to find you! I must take my spin back.” “You’ve seen everything as you wished?” “Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve seen wonders.” She showed her pleasure. “Yes, we’ve got some things.” “So Mr. Bender says!” he laughed. “You’ve got five or six--” “Only five or six?” she cried in bright alarm. “‘Only’?” he continued to laugh. “Why, that’s enormous, five or six things of the first importance! But I think I ought to mention to you,” he added, “a most barefaced ‘Rubens’ there in the library.” “It isn’t a Rubens?” “No more than I’m a Ruskin.” “Then you’ll brand us--expose us for it?” “No, I’ll let you off--I’ll be quiet if you’re good, if you go straight. I’ll only hold it _in terrorem_. One can’t be sure in these dreadful days--that’s always to remember; so that if you’re not good I’ll come down on you with it. But to balance against that threat,” he went on, “I’ve made the very grandest find. At least I believe I have!” She was all there for this news. “Of the Manto-vano--hidden in the other thing?” Hugh wondered--almost as if she had been before him. “You don’t mean to say _you’ve_ had the idea of that?” “No, but my father has told me.” “And is your father,” he eagerly asked, “really gratified?” With her conscious eyes on him--her eyes could clearly be very conscious about her father--she considered a moment. “He always prefers old associations and appearances to new; but I’m sure he’ll resign himself if you see your way to a certainty.” “Well, it will be a question of the weight of expert opinion that I shall invoke. But I’m not afraid,” he resolutely said, “and I shall make the thing, from its splendid rarity, the crown and flower of your glory.” Her serious face shone at him with a charmed gratitude. “It’s awfully beautiful then your having come to us so. It’s awfully beautiful your having brought us this way, in a flash--as dropping out of a chariot of fire--more light and what you apparently feel with myself as more honour.”<|quote|>“Ah, the beauty’s in your having yourself done it!”</|quote|>he returned. He gave way to the positive joy of it. “If I’ve brought the ‘light’ and the rest--that’s to say the very useful information--who in the world was it brought _me?_” She had a gesture of protest “You’d have come in some other way.” “I’m not so sure! I’m beastly shy--little as I may seem to show it: save in great causes, when I’m horridly bold and hideously offensive. Now at any rate I only know what _has_ been.” She turned off for it, moving away from him as with a sense of mingled things that made for unrest; and he had the next moment grown graver under the impression. “But does anything in it all,” he asked, “trouble you?” She faced about across the wider space, and there was a different note in what she brought out. “I don’t know what forces me so to _tell_ you things.” “‘Tell’ me?” he stared. “Why, you’ve told me nothing more monstrous than that I’ve been welcome!” “Well, however that may be, what did you mean just now by the chance of our not ‘going straight’? When you said you’d expose our bad--or is it our false?--Rubens in the event of a certain danger.” “Oh, in the event of your ever being bribed” --he laughed again as with relief. | The Outcry |
"Mine is a long and a sad tale!" | The Mouse | it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to | a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ | last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale | thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a | very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall | had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for | but very politely: "Did you speak?" "Not I!" said the Lory hastily. "I thought you did," said the Mouse. "--I proceed. 'Edwin and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand, the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--'" "Found _what_?" said the Duck. "Found _it_," the Mouse replied rather crossly: "of course you know what 'it' means." "I know what 'it' means well enough, when _I_ find a thing," said the Duck: "it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the archbishop find?" The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, "'--found it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his Normans--' How are you getting on now, my dear?" it continued, turning to Alice as it spoke. "As wet as ever," said Alice in a melancholy tone: "it doesn't seem to dry me at all." "In that case," said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself "The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?" Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake | tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again.<|quote|>"Mine is a long and a sad tale!"</|quote|>said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_" cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. "A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily. | No speaker | I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always | got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, | jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded | go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What | know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said | There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering | feet, "I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies--" "Speak English!" said the Eaglet. "I don't know the meaning of half those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!" And the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds tittered audibly. "What I was going to say," said the Dodo in an offended tone, "was, that the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race." "What _is_ a Caucus-race?" said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that _somebody_ ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything. "Why," said the Dodo, "the best way to explain it is to do it." (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.) First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, (" "the exact shape doesn't matter," it said,) and then all the party were placed along the course, here and there. There was no "One, two, three, and away," but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out "The race is over!" and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone. "I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!" she said to herself in a melancholy tone. "Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you any more!" And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story. CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard it muttering to itself "The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are ferrets! Where _can_ I have dropped them, I wonder?" Alice guessed in a moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves, and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door, had vanished completely. Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, "Why, Mary Ann, what _are_ you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!" And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made. "He took me for his housemaid," she said to herself as she ran. "How surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them." As she said this, she came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass plate with the name "W. RABBIT," engraved upon it. She went in without knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the fan and gloves. "How queer it seems," Alice said to herself, "to be going messages for a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!" And she began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: "'Miss Alice! Come here directly, and get ready for your walk!' 'Coming in a minute, nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out.' Only I don't think," Alice went on, "that | all crowded round it, panting, and asking, "But who has won?" This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought, and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead (the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said, "_Everybody_ has won, and all must have prizes." "But who is to give the prizes?" quite a chorus of voices asked. "Why, _she_, of course," said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger; and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused way, "Prizes! Prizes!" Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one a-piece, all round. "But she must have a prize herself, you know," said the Mouse. "Of course," the Dodo replied very gravely. "What else have you got in your pocket?" he went on, turning to Alice. "Only a thimble," said Alice sadly. "Hand it over here," said the Dodo. Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying "We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble;" and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered. Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could. The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back. However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and begged the Mouse to tell them something more. "You promised to tell me your history, you know," said Alice, "and why it is you hate--C and D," she added in a whisper, half afraid that it would be offended again. "Mine is a long and a sad tale!" said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and sighing. "It _is_ a long tail, certainly," said Alice, looking down with wonder at the Mouse's tail; "but why do you call it sad?" And she kept on puzzling about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was something like this:-- "Fury said to a mouse, That he met in the house, 'Let us both go to law: _I_ will prosecute _you_.--Come, I'll take no denial; We must have a trial: For really this morning I've nothing to do.' Said the mouse to the cur, 'Such a trial, dear sir, With no jury or judge, would be wasting our breath.' 'I'll be judge, I'll be jury,' Said cunning old Fury: 'I'll try the whole cause, and condemn you to death.'" "You are not attending!" said the Mouse to Alice severely. "What are you thinking of?" "I beg your pardon," said Alice very humbly: "you had got to the fifth bend, I think?" "I had _not!_"<|quote|>cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.</|quote|>"A knot!" said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking anxiously about her. "Oh, do let me help to undo it!" "I shall do nothing of the sort," said the Mouse, getting up and walking away. "You insult me by talking such nonsense!" "I didn't mean it!" pleaded poor Alice. "But you're so easily offended, you know!" The Mouse only growled in reply. "Please come back and finish your story!" Alice called after it; and the others all joined in chorus, "Yes, please do!" but the Mouse only shook its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker. "What a pity it wouldn't stay!" sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her daughter "Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose _your_ temper!" "Hold your tongue, Ma!" said the young Crab, a little snappishly. "You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!" "I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!" said Alice aloud, addressing nobody in particular. "She'd soon fetch it back!" "And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?" said the Lory. Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet: "Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why, she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!" This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very carefully, remarking, "I really must be getting home; the night-air doesn't suit my throat!" and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to its children, "Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!" On various pretexts they all | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
cried Anne. | No speaker | wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree | after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever | best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" | Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast | Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy | is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for | Diana, fairly falling on the former's neck and weeping with relief and delight, "oh, Anne--we thought--you were--drowned--and we felt like murderers--because we had made--you be--Elaine. And Ruby is in hysterics--oh, Anne, how did you escape?" "I climbed up on one of the piles," explained Anne wearily, "and Gilbert Blythe came along in Mr. Andrews's dory and brought me to land." "Oh, Anne, how splendid of him! Why, it's so romantic!" said Jane, finding breath enough for utterance at last. "Of course you'll speak to him after this." "Of course I won't," flashed Anne, with a momentary return of her old spirit. "And I don't want ever to hear the word ?romantic' again, Jane Andrews. I'm awfully sorry you were so frightened, girls. It is all my fault. I feel sure I was born under an unlucky star. Everything I do gets me or my dearest friends into a scrape. We've gone and lost your father's flat, Diana, and I have a presentiment that we'll not be allowed to row on the pond any more." Anne's presentiment proved more trustworthy than presentiments are apt to do. Great was the consternation in the Barry and Cuthbert households when the events of the afternoon became known. "Will you ever have any sense, Anne?" groaned Marilla. "Oh, yes, I think I will, Marilla," returned Anne optimistically. A good cry, indulged in the grateful solitude of the east gable, had soothed her nerves and restored her to her wonted cheerfulness. "I think my prospects of becoming sensible are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all until I know whether I can go or not," said Anne resolutely. "If I did and then was disappointed, it would be more than I could bear. But in case I do go I'm very glad my new coat will be ready by that time. Marilla didn't think I needed a new coat. She said my old one would do very well for another winter and that I ought to be satisfied with having a new dress. The dress is very pretty, Diana--navy blue and made so fashionably. Marilla always makes my dresses fashionably now, because she says she doesn't intend to have Matthew going to Mrs. Lynde to make them. I'm so glad. It is ever so much easier to be good if your clothes are fashionable. At least, it is easier for me. I suppose it doesn't make such a difference to naturally good people. But Matthew said I must have a new coat, so Marilla bought a lovely piece of blue broadcloth, and it's being made by a real dressmaker over at Carmody. It's to be done Saturday night, and I'm trying not to imagine myself walking up the church aisle on Sunday in my new suit and cap, because I'm afraid it isn't right to imagine such things. But it just slips into my mind in spite of me. My cap is so pretty. Matthew bought it for me the day we were over at Carmody. It is one of those little blue velvet ones that are all the rage, with gold cord and tassels. Your new hat is elegant, Diana, and so becoming. When I saw you come into church last Sunday my heart swelled with pride to think you were my dearest friend. Do you suppose it's wrong for us to think so much about our clothes? Marilla says it is very sinful. But it is such an interesting subject, isn't it?" Marilla agreed to let Anne go to town, and it was arranged that Mr. Barry should take the girls in on the following Tuesday. As Charlottetown was thirty miles away and Mr. Barry wished to go and return the same day, it was necessary to make a very early start. But Anne counted it all joy, and was up before sunrise on Tuesday morning. A glance from her window assured her that the day would be fine, for the eastern sky behind the firs of the Haunted Wood was all silvery and cloudless. Through the gap in the trees a light was shining in the western gable of Orchard Slope, a token that Diana was also up. Anne was dressed by the time Matthew had the fire on and had the breakfast ready when Marilla came down, but for her own part was much too | are brighter now than ever." "I don't see how," said Marilla. "Well," explained Anne, "I've learned a new and valuable lesson today. Ever since I came to Green Gables I've been making mistakes, and each mistake has helped to cure me of some great shortcoming. The affair of the amethyst brooch cured me of meddling with things that didn't belong to me. The Haunted Wood mistake cured me of letting my imagination run away with me. The liniment cake mistake cured me of carelessness in cooking. Dyeing my hair cured me of vanity. I never think about my hair and nose now--at least, very seldom. And today's mistake is going to cure me of being too romantic. I have come to the conclusion that it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea. It was probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago, but romance is not appreciated now. I feel quite sure that you will soon see a great improvement in me in this respect, Marilla." "I'm sure I hope so," said Marilla skeptically. But Matthew, who had been sitting mutely in his corner, laid a hand on Anne's shoulder when Marilla had gone out. "Don't give up all your romance, Anne," he whispered shyly, "a little of it is a good thing--not too much, of course--but keep a little of it, Anne, keep a little of it." CHAPTER XXIX. An Epoch in Anne's Life |ANNE was bringing the cows home from the back pasture by way of Lover's Lane. It was a September evening and all the gaps and clearings in the woods were brimmed up with ruby sunset light. Here and there the lane was splashed with it, but for the most part it was already quite shadowy beneath the maples, and the spaces under the firs were filled with a clear violet dusk like airy wine. The winds were out in their tops, and there is no sweeter music on earth than that which the wind makes in the fir trees at evening. The cows swung placidly down the lane, and Anne followed them dreamily, repeating aloud the battle canto from _Marmion_--which had also been part of their English course the preceding winter and which Miss Stacy had made them learn off by heart--and exulting in its rushing lines and the clash of spears in its imagery. When she came to the lines The stubborn spearsmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, she stopped in ecstasy to shut her eyes that she might the better fancy herself one of that heroic ring. When she opened them again it was to behold Diana coming through the gate that led into the Barry field and looking so important that Anne instantly divined there was news to be told. But betray too eager curiosity she would not. "Isn't this evening just like a purple dream, Diana? It makes me so glad to be alive. In the mornings I always think the mornings are best; but when evening comes I think it's lovelier still." "It's a very fine evening," said Diana, "but oh, I have such news, Anne. Guess. You can have three guesses." "Charlotte Gillis is going to be married in the church after all and Mrs. Allan wants us to decorate it,"<|quote|>cried Anne.</|quote|>"No. Charlotte's beau won't agree to that, because nobody ever has been married in the church yet, and he thinks it would seem too much like a funeral. It's too mean, because it would be such fun. Guess again." "Jane's mother is going to let her have a birthday party?" Diana shook her head, her black eyes dancing with merriment. "I can't think what it can be," said Anne in despair, "unless it's that Moody Spurgeon MacPherson saw you home from prayer meeting last night. Did he?" "I should think not," exclaimed Diana indignantly. "I wouldn't be likely to boast of it if he did, the horrid creature! I knew you couldn't guess it. Mother had a letter from Aunt Josephine today, and Aunt Josephine wants you and me to go to town next Tuesday and stop with her for the Exhibition. There!" "Oh, Diana," whispered Anne, finding it necessary to lean up against a maple tree for support, "do you really mean it? But I'm afraid Marilla won't let me go. She will say that she can't encourage gadding about. That was what she said last week when Jane invited me to go with them in their double-seated buggy to the American concert at the White Sands Hotel. I wanted to go, but Marilla said I'd be better at home learning my lessons and so would Jane. I was bitterly disappointed, Diana. I felt so heartbroken that I wouldn't say my prayers when I went to bed. But I repented of that and got up in the middle of the night and said them." "I'll tell you," said Diana, "we'll get Mother to ask Marilla. She'll be more likely to let you go then; and if she does we'll have the time of our lives, Anne. I've never been to an Exhibition, and it's so aggravating to hear the other girls talking about their trips. Jane and Ruby have been twice, and they're going this year again." "I'm not going to think about it at all | Anne Of Green Gables |
"Oh God," | Brenda | be long." He rang off.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the | Will you _please_ not?" "Shan't be long." He rang off.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up | 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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>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, | 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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it | 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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi | a lot. Tony did most of the talking. "Extraordinary idea of hers, taking up economics," he said. "I never thought it would last, but she seems really keen on it... I suppose it's a good plan. You know there wasn't really much for her to do all the time at Hetton. Of course she'd rather die than admit it, but I believe she got a bit bored there sometimes. I've been thinking it over and that's the conclusion I came to. Brenda must have been bored... Daresay she'll get bored with economics some time... Anyway, she seems cheerful enough now. We've had parties every week-end lately... I wish you'd come down sometimes, Jock. I don't seem to get on with Brenda's new friends." "People from the school of economics?" "No, but ones I don't know. I believe I bore them. Thinking it over, that's the conclusion I've come to. I bore them. They talk about me as" "the old boy". "John heard them." "Well, that's friendly enough." "Yes, that's friendly." They finished the Burgundy and drank some port. Presently Tony said, "I say, come next week-end, will you?" "I think I'd love to." "Wish you would. I don't see many old friends... Sure to be lots of people in the house, but you won't mind that, will you?... sociable chap, Jock... doesn't mind people about. _I_ mind it like hell." They drank some more port. Tony said, "Not enough bathrooms, you know... but of course you know. You've been there before, often. Not like the new friends who think me a bore. You don't think I'm a bore, do you?" "No, old boy." "Not even when I'm tight, like this?... There would have been bathrooms. I had the plans out. Four new ones. A chap down there made the plans... but then Brenda wanted the flat so I had to postpone them as an economy... I say, that's funny. We had to economize because of Brenda's economics." "Yes, that's funny. Let's have some port." Tony said, "You seem pretty low to-night." "I am rather. Worried about the Pig Scheme. Constituents keep writing." "_I_ felt low, _bloody_ low, but I'm all right again now. The best thing is to get tight. That's what I did and I don't feel low any more... discouraging to come to London and find you're not wanted. Funny thing, _you_ feel low because your girl's chucked, and _I_ feel low because mine won't chuck." "Yes, that's funny." "But you know I've felt low for weeks now... bloody low... how about some brandy?" "Yes, why not? After all, there are other things in life besides women and pigs." They had some brandy and after a time Jock began to cheer up. Presently a page came to their table to say, "A message from Lady Brenda, sir." "Good, I'll go and speak to her." "It's not her ladyship speaking. Someone was sending a message." "I'll come and speak to her." He went to the telephone in the lobby outside. "Darling," he said. "Is that Mr Last? I've got a message here, from Lady Brenda." "Right, put me through to her." "She can't speak herself, but she asked me to give you this message, that she's very sorry but she cannot join you to-night. She's very tired and has gone home to bed." "Tell her I want to speak to her." "I can't, I'm afraid, she's gone to bed. She's very tired." "She's very tired and she's gone to bed?" "That's right." "Well, I want to speak to her." "Good night," said the voice. "The old boy's plastered," said Beaver as he rang off. "Oh dear. I feel rather awful about him. But what _can_ he expect, coming up suddenly like this? He's got to be taught not to make surprise visits." "Is he often like that?" "No, it's quite new." The telephone bell rang. "D'you suppose that's him again? I'd better answer it." "I want to speak to Lady Brenda Last." "Tony, darling, this _is_ me, Brenda." "Some damn fool said I couldn't speak to you." "I left a message from where I was dining. Are you having a lovely evening?" "Hellish. I'm with Jock. He's worried about the Pig Scheme. Shall we come round and see you?" "No, not now, darling, I'm terribly tired and just going to bed." "We'll come and see you." "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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to some lousy joint," said Jock, putting his head through the window. The cab wheeled round and made towards Regent Street. "We can always ring Brenda from the lousy joint." "Yes, I think we ought to do that. She's a grand girl." "Grand girl." The cab turned into Golden Square and then down Sink Street, a dingy little place inhabited for the most part by Asiatics. "D'you know, I believe he's taking us to the Old Hundredth." "Can't still be open? Thought they closed it down years ago." But the door was brightly illuminated and a seedy figure in peaked cap and braided overcoat stepped out to open the taxi for them. The Old Hundredth has never been shut. For a generation, while other night clubs have sprung into being, with various names and managers, and various pretensions to respectability, have enjoyed a precarious and brief existence, and come to grief at the hands either of police or creditors, the Old Hundredth has maintained a solid front against all adversity. It has not been immune from persecution; far from it. Times out of number, magistrates have struck it off, cancelled its licence, condemned its premises; the staff and proprietor have been constantly in and out of prison; there have been questions in the House and committees of enquiry, but whatever Home Secretaries and Commissioners of Police have risen into eminence and retired discredited, the doors of the Old Hundredth have always been open from nine in the evening until four at night, and inside there has been an unimpeded flow of dubious, alcoholic preparations. A kindly young lady admitted Tony and Jock to the ramshackle building. "D'you mind signing on?" Tony and Jock inscribed fictitious names at the foot of a form which stated, _I have been 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 | 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.<|quote|>"Oh God,"</|quote|>said Brenda. "This isn't the least like Tony. Ring up Bratt's and get on to Jock. He'll have more sense." * * * * * "That was Brenda." "So I gathered." "She's at the flat. I said that we'd go round." "Splendid. Haven't seen her for weeks. Very fond of Brenda." "So am I. Grand girl." "Grand girl." "A lady on the telephone for you, Mr Grant-Menzies." "Who?" "She didn't give a name." "All right. I'll come." Brenda said to him, "Jock, what _have_ you been doing to my husband?" "He's a bit tight, that's all." "He's roaring. Look here, he threatens to come round. I simply can't face him to-night in that mood, I'm tired out. You understand, don't you?" "Yes, I understand." "So will you, _please_, keep him away? Are you tight too?" "A little bit." "Oh dear, can I trust you?" "I'll try." "Well, it doesn't sound too good. Good-bye" ... "John, you've got to go. Those hooligans may turn up at any moment. Have you got your taxi fare? You'll find some change in my bag." * * * * * "Was that your girl?" "Yes." "Made it up?" "Not exactly." "Far better to make it up. Shall we have some more brandy or go round to Brenda straight away?" "Let's have some more brandy." "Jock, you aren't still feeling low, are you? Doesn't do to feel low. _I'm_ not feeling low. I _was_, but I'm not any more." "No, I'm not feeling low." "Then we'll have some brandy and then go to Brenda's." "All right." Half an hour later they got into Jock's car. "Tell you what, I shouldn't drive if I were you." "Not drive?" "No, I shouldn't drive. They'd say you were drunk." "Who would?" "Anyone you ran over. They'd say you were drunk." "Well, so I am." "Then I shouldn't drive." "Too far to walk." "We'll take a taxi." "Oh, hell, I can drive." "Or let's not go to Brenda's at all." "We'd better go to Brenda's," said Jock. "She's expecting us." "Well, I can't walk all that way. Besides, I don't think she really wanted us to come." "She'll be pleased when she sees us." "Yes, but it's a long way. Let's go some other place." "I'd like to see Brenda," said Jock. "I'm very fond of Brenda." "She's a grand girl." "She's a grand girl." "Well, let's take a taxi to Brenda's." But half-way Jock said, "Don't let's go there. Let's go some other place. Let's go to some low joint." "All the same to me. Tell him to go to some lousy joint." "Go to | A Handful Of Dust |
"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" | Mrs. Jennings | "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending | dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. | is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly | he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," | in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it | to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour." Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel | than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them." "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman s name?" "I must not tell, ma am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say." "No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all." "Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence." "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour." Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon s horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body. "Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." "And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how | proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home. CHAPTER XIII. Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma am, I thank you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." "No, ma am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."<|quote|>"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?"</|quote|>said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose _one_ | Sense And Sensibility |
he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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. | No speaker | sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“Seeing your name on yer | to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“Seeing your name on yer bags, an’ knowin’ you was | of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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 | tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?” Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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 | three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if I was “all serene” . At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool township disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office, where the mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulled rein in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?” Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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 | provided me with one solitary fond remembrance—only with dreary, wing-clipping, mind-starving recollections. No, no; I was not leaving home behind, I was flying homeward now. Home, home to Caddagat, home to ferny gullies, to the sweet sad rush of many mountain waters, to the majesty of rugged Borgongs; home to dear old grannie, and uncle and aunt, to books, to music; refinement, company, pleasure, and the dear old homestead I love so well. All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey, and was taken in charge by a big red-bearded man, who informed me he was the driver of the mail-coach, and had received a letter from Mrs Bossier instructing him to take care of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what he termed “that same” , and I would be as safe under his care as I would be in God’s pocket. My twenty-six miles’ coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was the only passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the seat, to be interrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if I was “all serene” . At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool township disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office, where the mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulled rein in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?” Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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 | the heart to help have not the power, and those who have the power have not the heart.” Bad, like a too-strong opponent in a game of chess, is ever at the elbow of good to checkmate it like a weakly managed king. I am sadly lacking in self-reliance. I needed some one to help me over the rough spots in life, and finding them not, at the age of sixteen I was as rank a cynic and infidel as could be found in three days’ march. CHAPTER EIGHT Possum Gully Left Behind. Hurrah! Hurrah! If a Sydney man has friends residing at Goulburn, he says they are up the country. If a Goulburn man has friends at Yass, he says they are up the country. If a Yass man has friends at Young, he says they are up the country, and so on. Caddagat is “up the country” . Bound thither on the second Wednesday in August 1896, I bought a ticket at the Goulburn railway station, and at some time about 1 a.m. took my seat in a second class carriage of the mail-train on its way to Melbourne. I had three or four hours to travel in this train when I would have to change to a branch line for two hours longer. I was the only one from Goulburn in that carriage; all the other passengers had been in some time and were asleep. One or two opened their eyes strugglingly, stared glumly at the intruder, and then went to sleep again. The motion of the train was a joy to me, and sleep never entered my head. I stood up, and pressing my forehead to the cold window-pane, vainly attempted, through the inky blackness of the foggy night, to discern the objects which flew by. I was too full of pleasant anticipation of what was ahead of me to think of those I had left behind. I did not regret leaving Possum Gully. Quite the reverse; I felt inclined to wave my arms and yell for joy at being freed from it. Home! God forbid that my experiences at Possum Gully should form the only food for my reminiscences of home. I had practically grown up there, but my heart refused absolutely to regard it as home. I hated it then, I hate it now, with its narrowing, stagnant monotony. It has and had not provided me with one solitary fond remembrance—only with dreary, wing-clipping, mind-starving recollections. No, no; I was not leaving home behind, I was flying homeward now. Home, home to Caddagat, home to ferny gullies, to the sweet sad rush of many mountain waters, to the majesty of rugged Borgongs; home to dear old grannie, and uncle and aunt, to books, to music; refinement, company, pleasure, and the dear old homestead I love so well. All in good time I arrived at the end of my train journey, and was taken in charge by a big red-bearded man, who informed me he was the driver of the mail-coach, and had received a letter from Mrs Bossier instructing him to take care of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what he termed “that same” , and I would be as safe under his care as I would be in God’s pocket. My twenty-six miles’ coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was the only passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the seat, to be interrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if I was “all serene” . At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool township disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office, where the mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulled rein in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?” Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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,” 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. “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 | of me. He informed me also that he was glad to do what he termed “that same” , and I would be as safe under his care as I would be in God’s pocket. My twenty-six miles’ coach drive was neither pleasant nor eventful. I was the only passenger, and so had my choice of seats. The weather being cold and wet, I preferred being inside the box and curled myself up on the seat, to be interrupted every two or three miles by the good-natured driver inquiring if I was “all serene” . At the Halfway House, where a change of the team of five horses was affected, I had a meal and a warm, and so tuned myself up for the remainder of the way. It got colder as we went on, and at 2.30 p.m. I was not at all sorry to see the iron roofs of Gool-Gool township disclosing to my view. We first went to the post office, where the mail-bags were delivered, and then returned and pulled rein in front of the Woolpack Hotel. A tall young gentleman in a mackintosh and cap, who had been standing on the veranda, stepped out on the street as the coach stopped, and lifting his cap and thrusting his head into the coach, inquired, “Which is Miss Melvyn?” Seeing I was the only occupant, he laughed the pleasantest of laughs, disclosing two wide rows of perfect teeth, and turning to the driver, said, “Is that your only passenger? I suppose it is Miss Melvyn?” “As I wasn’t present at her birth, I can’t swear, but I believe her to be that same, as sure as eggs is eggs,”<|quote|>he replied. My identity being thus established, the young gentleman with the greatest of courtesy assisted me to alight, ordered the hotel groom to stow my luggage in the Caddagat buggy, and harness the horses with all expedition. He 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.</|quote|>“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 | My Brilliant Career |
"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." | Mr. Mcbryde | was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had | I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a | arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, | responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; | only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule | with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always do something disappointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And now Hamidullah! instead of raging and denouncing, he temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitiation. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugnacious and sensible. McBryde's remark, "If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the | stones at a young man for doing that, but I haven't. I did the same at his age." So had the Superintendent of Police, but he considered that the conversation had taken a turn that was undesirable. He did not like Fielding's next remark either. "Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know that for a certainty?" "You have never explained to me what's in your mind here. Why on earth do you want to see her?" "On the off chance of her recanting before you send in that report and he's committed for trial, and the whole thing goes to blazes. Old man, don't argue about this, but do of your goodness just ring up your wife or Miss Derek and enquire. It'll cost you nothing." "It's no use ringing up them," he replied, stretching out for the telephone. "Callendar settles a question like that, of course. You haven't grasped that she's seriously ill." "He's sure to refuse, it's all he exists for," said the other desperately. The expected answer came back: the Major would not hear of the patient being troubled. "I only wanted to ask her whether she is certain, dead certain, that it was Aziz who followed her into the cave." "Possibly my wife might ask her that much." "But _I_ wanted to ask her. I want someone who believes in him to ask her." "What difference does that make?" "She is among people who disbelieve in Indians." "Well, she tells her own story, doesn't she?" "I know, but she tells it to you." McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: "A bit too finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won't hear of you seeing her. I'm sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means out of danger." They were silent. Another card was brought into the office Hamidullah's. The opposite army was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always do something disappointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And now Hamidullah! instead of raging and denouncing, he temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitiation. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugnacious and sensible. McBryde's remark, "If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line," was being illustrated. "First and foremost, the question of bail . . ." Application must be made this afternoon. Fielding wanted to stand surety. Hamidullah thought the Nawab Bahadur should be approached. "Why drag in him, though?" To drag in everyone was precisely the barrister's aim. He then suggested that the lawyer in charge of the case would be a Hindu; the defence would then make a wider appeal. He mentioned one or two names men from a distance who would not be intimidated by local conditions and said he should prefer Amritrao, a Calcutta barrister, who had a high reputation professionally and personally, but who was notoriously anti-British. Fielding demurred; this seemed to him going to the other extreme. Aziz must be cleared, but with a minimum of racial hatred. Amritrao was loathed at the club. His retention would be regarded as a political challenge. "Oh no, we must hit with all our strength. When I saw my friend's private papers carried in just now in the arms of a dirty policeman, I said to myself, Amritrao is the man to clear up this.'" There was a lugubrious pause. The temple bell continued to jangle harshly. The interminable and disastrous day had scarcely reached its afternoon. Continuing their work, the wheels of Dominion now propelled a messenger on a horse from the Superintendent to the Magistrate with an official report of arrest. "Don't complicate, let the cards play themselves," entreated Fielding, as he watched the man disappear into dust. "We're bound to win, there's nothing else we can do. She will never be able to substantiate the charge." This comforted Hamidullah, who remarked with complete sincerity, "At a crisis, the English are really unequalled." "Good-bye, then, my dear Hamidullah (we must drop the Mr.' now). Give Aziz my love when you see him, and tell him to keep calm, calm, calm. I shall go back to the College now. If you want me, ring me up; if you don't, don't, for I shall be very busy." "Good-bye, my dear Fielding, and you actually are on our side against your own people?" "Yes. Definitely." He regretted taking sides. To slink through India unlabelled was his aim. Henceforward he would be called "anti-British," "seditious" terms that bored him, and diminished his utility. He foresaw that besides being a tragedy, there would be a muddle; already he saw several tiresome little | raised his eyebrows, murmuring: "A bit too finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won't hear of you seeing her. I'm sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means out of danger." They were silent. Another card was brought into the office Hamidullah's. The opposite army was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said:<|quote|>"Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ."</|quote|>As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from | A Passage To India |
she asked, as if she had received the same warning. | No speaker | you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell | the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that | concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You | her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To | and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. | to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!" he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium. "It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. | said in a low voice, as she reached the pavement. She stopped with a slight start, and just then he saw two young men of fashionable cut approaching. There was a familiar air about their overcoats and the way their smart silk mufflers were folded over their white ties; and he wondered how youths of their quality happened to be dining out so early. Then he remembered that the Reggie Chiverses, whose house was a few doors above, were taking a large party that evening to see Adelaide Neilson in Romeo and Juliet, and guessed that the two were of the number. They passed under a lamp, and he recognised Lawrence Lefferts and a young Chivers. A mean desire not to have Madame Olenska seen at the Beauforts' door vanished as he felt the penetrating warmth of her hand. "I shall see you now--we shall be together," he broke out, hardly knowing what he said. "Ah," she answered, "Granny has told you?" While he watched her he was aware that Lefferts and Chivers, on reaching the farther side of the street corner, had discreetly struck away across Fifth Avenue. It was the kind of masculine solidarity that he himself often practised; now he sickened at their connivance. Did she really imagine that he and she could live like this? And if not, what else did she imagine? "Tomorrow I must see you--somewhere where we can be alone," he said, in a voice that sounded almost angry to his own ears. She wavered, and moved toward the carriage. "But I shall be at Granny's--for the present that is," she added, as if conscious that her change of plans required some explanation. "Somewhere where we can be alone," he insisted. She gave a faint laugh that grated on him. "In New York? But there are no churches ... no monuments." "There's the Art Museum--in the Park," he explained, as she looked puzzled. "At half-past two. I shall be at the door ..." She turned away without answering and got quickly into the carriage. As it drove off she leaned forward, and he thought she waved her hand in the obscurity. He stared after her in a turmoil of contradictory feelings. It seemed to him that he had been speaking not to the woman he loved but to another, a woman he was indebted to for pleasures already wearied of: it was hateful to find himself the prisoner of this hackneyed vocabulary. "She'll come!" he said to himself, almost contemptuously. Avoiding the popular "Wolfe collection," whose anecdotic canvases filled one of the main galleries of the queer wilderness of cast-iron and encaustic tiles known as the Metropolitan Museum, they had wandered down a passage to the room where the "Cesnola antiquities" mouldered in unvisited loneliness. They had this melancholy retreat to themselves, and seated on the divan enclosing the central steam-radiator, they were staring silently at the glass cabinets mounted in ebonised wood which contained the recovered fragments of Ilium. "It's odd," Madame Olenska said, "I never came here before." "Ah, well--. Some day, I suppose, it will be a great Museum." "Yes," she assented absently. She stood up and wandered across the room. Archer, remaining seated, watched the light movements of her figure, so girlish even under its heavy furs, the cleverly planted heron wing in her fur cap, and the way a dark curl lay like a flattened vine spiral on each cheek above the ear. His mind, as always when they first met, was wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to let her go again." And that was not to be imagined. But he saw the shadow of the lashes on her wet cheek, and wavered. "After all," he began again, "we have lives of our own.... There's no use attempting the impossible. You're so unprejudiced about some things, so used, as you say, to looking at the Gorgon, that I don't know why you're afraid to face our case, and see it as it really is--unless you think the sacrifice is not worth making." She stood up also, her lips tightening under a rapid frown. "Call it that, then--I must go," she said, drawing her little watch from her bosom. She turned away, and he followed and caught her by the wrist. "Well, then: come to me once," he said, his head turning suddenly at the thought of losing her; and for a second or two they looked at each other almost like enemies. "When?" he insisted. "Tomorrow?" She hesitated. "The day after." "Dearest--!" he said again. She had disengaged her wrist; but for a moment they continued to hold each other's eyes, and he saw that her face, which had grown very pale, was flooded with a deep inner | wholly absorbed in the delicious details that made her herself and no other. Presently he rose and approached the case before which she stood. Its glass shelves were crowded with small broken objects--hardly recognisable domestic utensils, ornaments and personal trifles--made of glass, of clay, of discoloured bronze and other time-blurred substances. "It seems cruel," she said, "that after a while nothing matters ... any more than these little things, that used to be necessary and important to forgotten people, and now have to be guessed at under a magnifying glass and labelled: 'Use unknown.'" "Yes; but meanwhile--" "Ah, meanwhile--" As she stood there, in her long sealskin coat, her hands thrust in a small round muff, her veil drawn down like a transparent mask to the tip of her nose, and the bunch of violets he had brought her stirring with her quickly-taken breath, it seemed incredible that this pure harmony of line and colour should ever suffer the stupid law of change. "Meanwhile everything matters--that concerns you," he said. She looked at him thoughtfully, and turned back to the divan. He sat down beside her and waited; but suddenly he heard a step echoing far off down the empty rooms, and felt the pressure of the minutes. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"<|quote|>she asked, as if she had received the same warning.</|quote|>"What I wanted to tell you?" he rejoined. "Why, that I believe you came to New York because you were afraid." "Afraid?" "Of my coming to Washington." She looked down at her muff, and he saw her hands stir in it uneasily. "Well--?" "Well--yes," she said. "You WERE afraid? You knew--?" "Yes: I knew ..." "Well, then?" he insisted. "Well, then: this is better, isn't it?" she returned with a long questioning sigh. "Better--?" "We shall hurt others less. Isn't it, after all, what you always wanted?" "To have you here, you mean--in reach and yet out of reach? To meet you in this way, on the sly? It's the very reverse of what I want. I told you the other day what I wanted." She hesitated. "And you still think this--worse?" "A thousand times!" He paused. "It would be easy to lie to you; but the truth is I think it detestable." "Oh, so do I!" she cried with a deep breath of relief. He sprang up impatiently. "Well, then--it's my turn to ask: what is it, in God's name, that you think better?" She hung her head and continued to clasp and unclasp her hands in her muff. The step drew nearer, and a guardian in a braided cap walked listlessly through the room like a ghost stalking through a necropolis. They fixed their eyes simultaneously on the case opposite them, and when the official figure had vanished down a vista of mummies and sarcophagi Archer spoke again. "What do you think better?" Instead of answering she murmured: "I promised Granny to stay with her because it seemed to me that here I should be safer." "From me?" She bent her head slightly, without looking at him. "Safer from loving me?" Her profile did not stir, but he saw a tear overflow on her lashes and hang in a mesh of her veil. "Safer from doing irreparable harm. Don't let us be like all the others!" she protested. "What others? I don't profess to be different from my kind. I'm consumed by the same wants and the same longings." She glanced at him with a kind of terror, and he saw a faint colour steal into her cheeks. "Shall I--once come to you; and then go home?" she suddenly hazarded in a low clear voice. The blood rushed to the young man's forehead. "Dearest!" he said, without moving. It seemed as if he held his heart in his hands, like a full cup that the least motion might overbrim. Then her last phrase struck his ear and his face clouded. "Go home? What do you mean by going home?" "Home to my husband." "And you expect me to say yes to that?" She raised her troubled eyes to his. "What else is there? I can't stay here and lie to the people who've been good to me." "But that's the very reason why I ask you to come away!" "And destroy their lives, when they've helped me to remake mine?" Archer sprang to his feet and stood looking down on her in inarticulate despair. It would have been easy to say: "Yes, come; come once." He knew the power she would put in his hands if she consented; there would be no difficulty then in persuading her not to go back to her husband. But something silenced the word on his lips. A sort of passionate honesty in her made it inconceivable that he should try to draw her into that familiar trap. "If I were to let her come," he said to himself, "I should have to | The Age Of Innocence |
"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry." | Christopher Robin - Story | "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said | all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," | widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at | the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across | a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's | Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This | Rabbit, then Piglet and Pooh; then Kanga, with Roo in her pocket, and Owl; then Eeyore; and, at the end, in a long line, all Rabbit's friends-and-relations. "I didn't ask them," explained Rabbit carelessly. "They just came. They always do. They can march at the end, after Eeyore." "What I say," said Eeyore, "is that it's unsettling. I didn't want to come on this Expo--what Pooh said. I only came to oblige. But here I am; and if I am the end of the Expo--what we're talking about--then let me _be_ the end. But if, every time I want to sit down for a little rest, I have to brush away half a dozen of Rabbit's smaller friends-and-relations first, then this isn't an Expo--whatever it is--at all, it's simply a Confused Noise. That's what _I_ say." "I see what Eeyore means," said Owl. "If you ask me----" "I'm not asking anybody," said Eeyore. "I'm just telling everybody. We can look for the North Pole, or we can play 'Here we go gathering Nuts and May' with the end part of an ant's nest. It's all the same to me." There was a shout from the top of the line. "Come on!" called Christopher Robin. "Come on!" called Pooh and Piglet "Come on!" called Owl. "We're starting," said Rabbit. "I must go." And he hurried off to the front of the Expotition with Christopher Robin. "All right," said Eeyore. "We're going. Only Don't Blame Me." So off they all went to discover the Pole. And as they walked, they chattered to each other of this and that, all except Pooh, who was making up a song. "This is the first verse," he said to Piglet, when he was ready with it. "First verse of what?" "My song." "What song?" "This one." "Which one?" "Well, if you listen, Piglet, you'll hear it." "How do you know I'm not listening?" Pooh couldn't answer that one, so he began to sing. "They all went off to discover the Pole, Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all; It's a Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I say" noises; Owl was explaining that in a case of Sudden and Temporary Immersion the Important Thing was to keep the Head Above Water; Kanga was jumping along the bank, saying "Are you _sure_ you're all right, Roo dear?" to which Roo, from whatever pool he was in at the moment, was answering "Look at me swimming!" Eeyore had turned round and hung his tail over the first pool into which Roo fell, and with his back to the accident was grumbling quietly to himself, and saying, "All this washing; but catch on to my tail, little Roo, and you'll be all right" "; and, Christopher Robin and Rabbit came hurrying past Eeyore, and were calling out to the others in front of them. "All right, Roo, I'm coming," called Christopher Robin. "Get something across the stream lower down, some of you fellows," called Rabbit. But Pooh was getting something. Two pools below Roo he was standing with a long pole in his paws, and Kanga came up and took one end of it, and between them they held it across the lower part of the pool; and Roo, still bubbling proudly, "Look at me swimming," drifted up against it, and climbed out. "Did you see me swimming?" squeaked Roo excitedly, while Kanga scolded him and rubbed him down. "Pooh, did you see me swimming? That's called swimming, what I was doing. Rabbit, did you see what I was doing? Swimming. Hallo, Piglet! I say, Piglet! What do you think I was doing! Swimming! Christopher Robin, did you see me----" But Christopher Robin wasn't listening. He was looking at Pooh. "Pooh," | Thing you Discover, as I've been tole By Owl and Piglet and Rabbit and all. Eeyore, Christopher Robin and Pooh And Rabbit's relations all went too-- And where the Pole was none of them knew.... Sing Hey! for Owl and Rabbit and all!" "Hush!" said Christopher Robin turning round to Pooh, "we're just coming to a Dangerous Place." "Hush!" said Pooh turning round quickly to Piglet. "Hush!" said Piglet to Kanga. "Hush!" said Kanga to Owl, while Roo said "Hush!" several times to himself very quietly. "Hush!" said Owl to Eeyore. "_Hush!_" said Eeyore in a terrible voice to all Rabbit's friends-and-relations, and "Hush!" they said hastily to each other all down the line, until it got to the last one of all. And the last and smallest friend-and-relation was so upset to find that the whole Expotition was saying "Hush!" to _him_, that he buried himself head downwards in a crack in the ground, and stayed there for two days until the danger was over, and then went home in a great hurry, and lived quietly with his Aunt ever-afterwards. His name was Alexander Beetle. They had come to a stream which twisted and tumbled between high rocky banks, and Christopher Robin saw at once how dangerous it was. "It's just the place," he explained, "for an Ambush." "What sort of bush?" whispered Pooh to Piglet. "A gorse-bush?" "My dear Pooh," said Owl in his superior way, "don't you know what an Ambush is?" "Owl," said Piglet, looking round at him severely, "Pooh's whisper was a perfectly private whisper, and there was no need----" "An Ambush," said Owl, "is a sort of Surprise." "So is a gorse-bush sometimes," said Pooh. "An Ambush, as I was about to explain to Pooh," said Piglet, "is a sort of Surprise." "If people jump out at you suddenly, that's an Ambush," said Owl. "It's an Ambush, Pooh, when people jump at you suddenly," explained Piglet. Pooh, who now knew what an Ambush was, said that a gorse-bush had sprung at him suddenly one day when he fell off a tree, and he had taken six days to get all the prickles out of himself. "We are not _talking_ about gorse-bushes," said Owl a little crossly. "I am," said Pooh. They were climbing very cautiously up the stream now, going from rock to rock, and after they had gone a little way they came to a place where the banks widened out at each side, so that on each side of the water there was a level strip of grass on which they could sit down and rest. As soon as he saw this, Christopher Robin called "Halt!" and they all sat down and rested. "I think," said Christopher Robin,<|quote|>"that we ought to eat all our Provisions now, so that we shan't have so much to carry."</|quote|>"Eat all our what?" said Pooh. "All that we've brought," said Piglet, getting to work. "That's a good idea," said Pooh, and he got to work too. "Have you all got something?" asked Christopher Robin with his mouth full. "All except me," said Eeyore. "As Usual." He looked round at them in his melancholy way. "I suppose none of you are sitting on a thistle by any chance?" "I believe I am," said Pooh. "Ow!" He got up, and looked behind him. "Yes, I was. I thought so." "Thank you, Pooh. If you've quite finished with it." He moved across to Pooh's place, and began to eat. "It don't do them any Good, you know, sitting on them," he went on, as he looked up munching. "Takes all the Life out of them. Remember that another time, all of you. A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference." As soon as he had finished his lunch Christopher Robin whispered to Rabbit, and Rabbit said "Yes, yes, of course," and they walked a little way up the stream together. "I didn't want the others to hear," said Christopher Robin. "Quite so," said Rabbit, looking important. "It's--I wondered--It's only--Rabbit, I suppose _you_ don't know, What does the North Pole _look_ like?" "Well," said Rabbit, stroking his whiskers. "Now you're asking me." "I did know once, only I've sort of forgotten," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "It's a funny thing," said Rabbit, "but I've sort of forgotten too, although I did know _once_." "I suppose it's just a pole stuck in the ground?" "Sure to be a pole," said Rabbit, "because of calling it a pole, and if it's a pole, well, I should think it would be sticking in the ground, shouldn't you, because there'd be nowhere else to stick it." "Yes, that's what I thought." "The only thing," said Rabbit, "is, _where is it sticking_?" "That's what we're looking for," said Christopher Robin. They went back to the others. Piglet was lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. Roo was washing his face and paws in the stream, while Kanga explained to everybody proudly that this was the first time he had ever washed his face himself, and Owl was telling Kanga an Interesting Anecdote full of long words like Encyclop dia and Rhododendron to which Kanga wasn't listening. "I don't hold with all this washing," grumbled Eeyore. "This modern Behind-the-ears nonsense. What do _you_ think, Pooh?" "Well," said Pooh, "_I_ think----" But we shall never know what Pooh thought, for there came a sudden squeak from Roo, a splash, and a loud cry of alarm from Kanga. "So much for _washing_," said Eeyore. "Roo's fallen in!" cried Rabbit, and he and Christopher Robin came rushing down to the rescue. "Look at me swimming!" squeaked Roo from the middle of his pool, and was hurried down a waterfall into the next pool. "Are you all right, Roo dear?" called Kanga anxiously. "Yes!" said Roo. "Look at me sw----" and down he went over the next waterfall into another pool. Everybody was doing something to help. Piglet, wide awake suddenly, was jumping up and down and making "Oo, I | Winnie The Pooh |
"And you processed her?" | Kemp | to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving | And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is | went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t | into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts | the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past | place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly | Then he started, struck by a thought, rose, took the Invisible Man s arm, and turned him away from the outlook. "You are tired," he said, "and while I sit, you walk about. Have my chair." He placed himself between Griffin and the nearest window. For a space Griffin sat silent, and then he resumed abruptly: "I had left the Chesilstowe cottage already," he said, "when that happened. It was last December. I had taken a room in London, a large unfurnished room in a big ill-managed lodging-house in a slum near Great Portland Street. The room was soon full of the appliances I had bought with his money; the work was going on steadily, successfully, drawing near an end. I was like a man emerging from a thicket, and suddenly coming on some unmeaning tragedy. I went to bury him. My mind was still on this research, and I did not lift a finger to save his character. I remember the funeral, the cheap hearse, the scant ceremony, the windy frost-bitten hillside, and the old college friend of his who read the service over him a shabby, black, bent old man with a snivelling cold." "I remember walking back to the empty house, through the place that had once been a village and was now patched and tinkered by the jerry builders into the ugly likeness of a town. Every way the roads ran out at last into the desecrated fields and ended in rubble heaps and rank wet weeds. I remember myself as a gaunt black figure, going along the slippery, shiny pavement, and the strange sense of detachment I felt from the squalid respectability, the sordid commercialism of the place." "I did not feel a bit sorry for my father. He seemed to me to be the victim of his own foolish sentimentality. The current cant required my attendance at his funeral, but it was really not my affair." "But going along the High Street, my old life came back to me for a space, for I met the girl I had known ten years since. Our eyes met." "Something moved me to turn back and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to be satisfied at last and went away again." "How long did it take?" asked Kemp. "Three or four hours the cat. The bones and sinews and the fat were the last to go, and the tips of the coloured hairs. And, as I say, the back part of the eye, tough, iridescent stuff it is, wouldn t go at all." "It was night outside long before the business was over, and nothing was to be seen but the dim eyes and the claws. I stopped the gas engine, felt for and stroked the beast, which was still insensible, and then, being tired, left it sleeping on the invisible pillow and went to bed. I found it hard to sleep. I lay awake thinking weak aimless stuff, going over the experiment over and over again, or dreaming feverishly of things growing misty and vanishing about me, until everything, the ground I stood on, vanished, and so I came to that sickly falling nightmare one gets. About two, the cat began miaowing about the room. I tried to hush it by talking to it, and then I decided to turn it out. I remember the shock I had when striking a light there were just the round eyes shining green and nothing round them. I would have given it milk, but I hadn t any. It wouldn t be quiet, it just sat down and miaowed at the door. I tried to catch it, with an idea of putting it out of the window, but it wouldn t be caught, it vanished. Then it began miaowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw any more of it." "Then Heaven knows why I fell thinking of my father s funeral again, and the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the morning streets." "You don t mean to say there s an invisible cat at large!" said Kemp. "If it hasn t been killed," said the Invisible Man. "Why not?" "Why not?" said Kemp. "I didn t mean to interrupt." "It s very probably been killed," said the Invisible Man. "It was alive four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street; because I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the miaowing came." He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed abruptly: "I remember that morning before the change very vividly. I must have gone up Great Portland Street. I remember the barracks in Albany Street, and the horse soldiers coming out, and at last I found the summit of Primrose Hill. It was a sunny day in January one of those sunny, frosty days that came before the snow this year. My weary brain tried to formulate the position, to plot out a plan of action." "I was surprised to find, now that my prize was within my grasp, how inconclusive its attainment seemed. As a matter of fact I was worked out; the intense stress of nearly four years continuous work left me incapable of any strength of feeling. I was apathetic, and I tried in vain to recover the enthusiasm of my first | and talk to her. She was a very ordinary person." "It was all like a dream, that visit to the old places. I did not feel then that I was lonely, that I had come out from the world into a desolate place. I appreciated my loss of sympathy, but I put it down to the general inanity of things. Re-entering my room seemed like the recovery of reality. There were the things I knew and loved. There stood the apparatus, the experiments arranged and waiting. And now there was scarcely a difficulty left, beyond the planning of details." "I will tell you, Kemp, sooner or later, all the complicated processes. We need not go into that now. For the most part, saving certain gaps I chose to remember, they are written in cypher in those books that tramp has hidden. We must hunt him down. We must get those books again. But the essential phase was to place the transparent object whose refractive index was to be lowered between two radiating centres of a sort of ethereal vibration, of which I will tell you more fully later. No, not those R ntgen vibrations I don t know that these others of mine have been described. Yet they are obvious enough. I needed two little dynamos, and these I worked with a cheap gas engine. My first experiment was with a bit of white wool fabric. It was the strangest thing in the world to see it in the flicker of the flashes soft and white, and then to watch it fade like a wreath of smoke and vanish." "I could scarcely believe I had done it. I put my hand into the emptiness, and there was the thing as solid as ever. I felt it awkwardly, and threw it on the floor. I had a little trouble finding it again." "And then came a curious experience. I heard a miaow behind me, and turning, saw a lean white cat, very dirty, on the cistern cover outside the window. A thought came into my head." Everything ready for you, "I said, and went to the window, opened it, and called softly. She came in, purring the poor beast was starving and I gave her some milk. All my food was in a cupboard in the corner of the room. After that she went smelling round the room, evidently with the idea of making herself at home. The invisible rag upset her a bit; you should have seen her spit at it! But I made her comfortable on the pillow of my truckle-bed. And I gave her butter to get her to wash."<|quote|>"And you processed her?"</|quote|>"I processed her. But giving drugs to a cat is no joke, Kemp! And the process failed." "Failed!" "In two particulars. These were the claws and the pigment stuff, what is it? at the back of the eye in a cat. You know?" "_Tapetum_." "Yes, the _tapetum_. It didn t go. After I d given the stuff to bleach the blood and done certain other things to her, I gave the beast opium, and put her and the pillow she was sleeping on, on the apparatus. And after all the rest had faded and vanished, there remained two little ghosts of her eyes." "Odd!" "I can t explain it. She was bandaged and clamped, of course so I had her safe; but she woke while she was still misty, and miaowed dismally, and someone came knocking. It was an old woman from downstairs, who suspected me of vivisecting a drink-sodden old creature, with only a white cat to care for in all the world. I whipped out some chloroform, applied it, and answered the door." Did I hear a cat? "she asked." My cat? "Not here, said I, very politely. She was a little doubtful and tried to peer past me into the room; strange enough to her no doubt bare walls, uncurtained windows, truckle-bed, with the gas engine vibrating, and the seethe of the radiant points, and that faint ghastly stinging of chloroform in the air. She had to | The Invisible Man |
"When _I'm_ a Duchess," | Alice | they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>she said to herself, (not | made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone | the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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 | had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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 | Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but "It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask _her_ about it." "She's in prison," the Queen said to the executioner: "fetch her here." And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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 | it doesn't matter much," thought Alice, "as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground." So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at _his_ time of life. The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense. The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but "It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask _her_ about it." "She's in prison," the Queen said to the executioner: "fetch her here." And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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. | only it ran away when it saw mine coming!" "How do you like the Queen?" said the Cat in a low voice. "Not at all," said Alice: "she's so extremely--" Just then she noticed that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on, "--likely to win, that it's hardly worth while finishing the game." The Queen smiled and passed on. "Who _are_ you talking to?" said the King, going up to Alice, and looking at the Cat's head with great curiosity. "It's a friend of mine--a Cheshire Cat," said Alice: "allow me to introduce it." "I don't like the look of it at all," said the King: "however, it may kiss my hand if it likes." "I'd rather not," the Cat remarked. "Don't be impertinent," said the King, "and don't look at me like that!" He got behind Alice as he spoke. "A cat may look at a king," said Alice. "I've read that in some book, but I don't remember where." "Well, it must be removed," said the King very decidedly, and he called the Queen, who was passing at the moment, "My dear! I wish you would have this cat removed!" The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. "Off with his head!" she said, without even looking round. "I'll fetch the executioner myself," said the King eagerly, and he hurried off. Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going on, as she heard the Queen's voice in the distance, screaming with passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog. The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless sort of way to fly up into a tree. By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: "but it doesn't matter much," thought Alice, "as all the arches are gone from this side of the ground." So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her friend. When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once, while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable. The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at _his_ time of life. The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense. The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but "It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask _her_ about it." "She's in prison," the Queen said to the executioner: "fetch her here." And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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!" the Duchess began in a low, weak voice. "Now, I give you fair warning," shouted the Queen, stamping on the ground as she spoke; "either you or your | by all three to settle the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly what they said. The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at _his_ time of life. The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense. The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) Alice could think of nothing else to say but "It belongs to the Duchess: you'd better ask _her_ about it." "She's in prison," the Queen said to the executioner: "fetch her here." And the executioner went off like an arrow. The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and, by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game. CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story "You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!" said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and they walked off together. Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so savage when they met in the kitchen.<|quote|>"When _I'm_ a Duchess,"</|quote|>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 | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. | No speaker | Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple | "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. | horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, | says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I | while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early | comes "On the march, about turn," the line of skirmishers simply turns about, but the squad leader, who now finds himself suddenly twenty paces in rear of the line, has to rush up at the double and take his position again twenty paces in front of the squad. That makes altogether forty paces double-march. But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about turn," comes again and he once more has to race at top speed another forty paces to the other side. In this way the squad has made merely the turn-about and a couple of paces while the squad-leader dashes backwards and forwards like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes. Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck. In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?" I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me: "You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," | him out with a suitable equipment. You will see in a minute." We go out to the parade ground. The company has fallen in. Mittelstaedt stands them at ease and inspects. Then I see Kantorek and am scarcely able to stifle my laughter. He is wearing a faded blue tunic. On the back and in the sleeves there are big dark patches. The overcoat must have belonged to a giant. The black, worn breeches are just as much too short; they reach barely halfway down his calf. The boots, tough old clod-hoppers, with turned-up toes and laces at the side, are much too big for him. But as a compensation the cap is too small, a terribly dirty, mean little pill-box. The whole rig-out is just pitiful. Mittelstaedt stops in front of him: "Territorial Kantorek, do you call those buttons polished? You seem as though you can never learn. Inadequate, Kantorek, quite inadequate----" It makes me bubble with glee. In school Kantorek used to chasten Mittelstaedt with exactly the same expression-- "Inadequate, Mittelstaedt, quite inadequate." Mittelstaedt continues to upbraid him: "Look at Boettcher now, there's a model for you to learn from." I can hardly believe my eyes. Boettcher is there too, Boettcher, our school porter. And he is a model! Kantorek shoots a glance at me as if he would like to eat me. But I grin at him innocently, as though I do not recognize him any more. Nothing could look more ludicrous than his forage-cap and his uniform. And this is the object before whom we used to stand in anguish, as he sat up there enthroned at his desk, spearing at us with his pencil for our mistakes in those irregular French verbs with which afterwards we made so little headway in France. That is barely two years ago--and now here stands Territorial Kantorek, the spell quite broken, with bent knees, arms like pothooks, unpolished buttons and that ludicrous rig-out--an impossible soldier. I cannot reconcile this with the menacing figure at the schoolmaster's desk. I wonder what I, the old soldier, would do if this skin full of woe ever dared to say to me again: "Bäumer, give the imperfect of 'aller.'" Then Mittelstaedt makes them practice skirmishing, and as a favour appoints Kantorek squad leader. Now in skirmishing the squad leader has always to keep twenty paces in front of his squad; if the order comes "On the march, about turn," the line of skirmishers simply turns about, but the squad leader, who now finds himself suddenly twenty paces in rear of the line, has to rush up at the double and take his position again twenty paces in front of the squad. That makes altogether forty paces double-march. But no sooner has he arrived than the order "On the march, about turn," comes again and he once more has to race at top speed another forty paces to the other side. In this way the squad has made merely the turn-about and a couple of paces while the squad-leader dashes backwards and forwards like a fart on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes. Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck. In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. It is a good thing I get my rations. I bring them to my mother and in that way we all get something decent to eat. The days grow ever more strained and my mother's eyes more sorrowful. Four days left now. I must go and see Kemmerich's mother. * * I cannot write that down. This quaking, sobbing woman who shakes me and cries out on me: "Why are you living then, when he is dead?" --who drowns me in tears and calls out: "What are you there for at all, child, when you----" --who drops into a chair and wails: "Did you see him? Did you see him then? How did he die?" I tell her he was shot through the heart and died instantaneously. She looks at me, she doubts me: "You lie. I know better. I have felt how terribly he died. I have heard his voice at night, I have felt his anguish--tell the truth, I want to know it, I must know it." "No," I say, "I was beside him. He died at once." She pleads with me gently: "Tell me. You must tell me. I know you want to comfort me, but don't you see, you torment me far more than if you told me the truth? I cannot bear the uncertainty. Tell me how it was and even though it will be terrible, it will be far better than what I have to think if you don't." I will never tell her, she can make mincemeat out of me first. I console her, but she strikes me as rather stupid all the same. Why doesn't she stop worrying? Kemmerich will stay dead whether she knows about it or not. When a man has seen so many dead he cannot understand any longer why there should be so much anguish over a single individual. So I say rather impatiently: "He died immediately. He felt absolutely nothing at all. His face was quite calm." She is silent. Then she says slowly: "Will you swear it?" "Yes." "By everything that is sacred to you?" Good God, what is there that is sacred to me?--such things change pretty quickly with us. "Yes, he died at once." "Are you willing never to come back yourself, if it isn't true?" "May I never come back if he wasn't killed instantaneously." I would swear to anything. But she seems to believe me. She moans and weeps steadily. I have to tell how it happened so I invent a story and I almost believe it myself. As I leave she kisses me and gives me a picture of him. In his recruit's uniform he leans on a round rustic table with legs made of birch branches. Behind him a wood is painted on a curtain, and on the table stands a mug of beer. * * It is the last evening at home. Everyone is silent. I go to bed early, I seize the pillow, press it against myself and bury my head in it. Who knows if I will ever lie in a feather bed again? Late in the night my mother comes into my room. She thinks I am asleep, and I pretend to be so. To talk, to stay awake with one another, it is too hard. She sits long into the night although she is in pain and often writhes. At last I can bear it | to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck. In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you."<|quote|>In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it.</|quote|>"They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter." "He'll mess up the examination for you." "I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came to nothing because I could show that he had had hardly anything but light duty." "Couldn't you polish him up a bit?" I ask. "He's too stupid, I couldn't be bothered," answers Mittelstaedt contemptuously. * * What is leave?--A pause that only makes everything after it so much worse. Already the sense of parting begins to intrude itself. My mother watches me silently,--I know she counts the days;--every morning she is sad. It is one day less. She has put away my pack, she does not want to be reminded by it. The hours pass quickly if a man broods. I pull myself together, and go with my sister to the butcher's to get a pound of bones. That is a great luxury and people line up early in the morning and stand waiting. Many of them faint. We have no luck. After waiting by turns for three hours the queue disperses. The bones have not lasted out. | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"Well?" | Katharine Hilbery | life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. | infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as | covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has | almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness." "I don t understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandra done?" "Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible," said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go." "I | "There s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, with apparent good humor. "People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked he is quite different when she is there." Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness." "I don t understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandra done?" "Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible," said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go." "I don t understand," Katharine persisted. Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words: "Cassandra has stolen William s love." Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect. "Do you mean," said Katharine, "that he has fallen in love with her?" "There are ways of _making_ men fall in love with one, Katharine." Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she began hurriedly: "Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. | send you those lovely flowers?" Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage of the basement, from Mrs. Milvain s point of view, was that it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim compared with that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs. Milvain herself a halo of gold. "They re from Stogdon House," said Katharine abruptly, with a little jerk of her head. Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, made no overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroic courage, plunged without preface: "People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this morning. You forgive me for saying what I d much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child." "There s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, with apparent good humor. "People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked he is quite different when she is there." Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness." "I don t understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandra done?" "Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible," said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go." "I don t understand," Katharine persisted. Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words: "Cassandra has stolen William s love." Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect. "Do you mean," said Katharine, "that he has fallen in love with her?" "There are ways of _making_ men fall in love with one, Katharine." Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she began hurriedly: "Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you happy, Katharine." Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty. "You are not going to say these things to Cassandra," said Katharine suddenly. "You ve said them to me; that s enough." Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain had to strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by them. "I ve made you angry! I knew I should!" she exclaimed. She quivered, and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations of martyrdom. "Yes," said Katharine, standing up, "I m so angry that I don t want to say anything more. I think you d better go, Aunt Celia. We don t understand each other." At these words Mrs. Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive; she glanced at her niece s face, but read no pity there, whereupon she folded her hands upon a black | sake, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed, jumping from her chair and showing signs of agitation, "don t be rash. Don t let her suspect. Remember, nothing s certain" Katharine assured her by nodding her head several times, but the manner in which she left the room was not calculated to inspire complete confidence in her diplomacy. Mrs. Milvain was sitting, or rather perching, upon the edge of a chair in the servants room. Whether there was any sound reason for her choice of a subterranean chamber, or whether it corresponded with the spirit of her quest, Mrs. Milvain invariably came in by the back door and sat in the servants room when she was engaged in confidential family transactions. The ostensible reason she gave was that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hilbery should be disturbed. But, in truth, Mrs. Milvain depended even more than most elderly women of her generation upon the delicious emotions of intimacy, agony, and secrecy, and the additional thrill provided by the basement was one not lightly to be forfeited. She protested almost plaintively when Katharine proposed to go upstairs. "I ve something that I want to say to you in _private_," she said, hesitating reluctantly upon the threshold of her ambush. "The drawing-room is empty" "But we might meet your mother upon the stairs. We might disturb your father," Mrs. Milvain objected, taking the precaution to speak in a whisper already. But as Katharine s presence was absolutely necessary to the success of the interview, and as Katharine obstinately receded up the kitchen stairs, Mrs. Milvain had no course but to follow her. She glanced furtively about her as she proceeded upstairs, drew her skirts together, and stepped with circumspection past all doors, whether they were open or shut. "Nobody will overhear us?" she murmured, when the comparative sanctuary of the drawing-room had been reached. "I see that I have interrupted you," she added, glancing at the flowers strewn upon the floor. A moment later she inquired, "Was some one sitting with you?" noticing a handkerchief that Cassandra had dropped in her flight. "Cassandra was helping me to put the flowers in water," said Katharine, and she spoke so firmly and clearly that Mrs. Milvain glanced nervously at the main door and then at the curtain which divided the little room with the relics from the drawing-room. "Ah, Cassandra is still with you," she remarked. "And did William send you those lovely flowers?" Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage of the basement, from Mrs. Milvain s point of view, was that it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim compared with that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs. Milvain herself a halo of gold. "They re from Stogdon House," said Katharine abruptly, with a little jerk of her head. Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, made no overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroic courage, plunged without preface: "People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this morning. You forgive me for saying what I d much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child." "There s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, with apparent good humor. "People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked he is quite different when she is there." Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness." "I don t understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandra done?" "Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible," said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go." "I don t understand," Katharine persisted. Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words: "Cassandra has stolen William s love." Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect. "Do you mean," said Katharine, "that he has fallen in love with her?" "There are ways of _making_ men fall in love with one, Katharine." Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she began hurriedly: "Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you happy, Katharine." Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty. "You are not going to say these things to Cassandra," said Katharine suddenly. "You ve said them to me; that s enough." Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain had to strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by them. "I ve made you angry! I knew I should!" she exclaimed. She quivered, and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations of martyrdom. "Yes," said Katharine, standing up, "I m so angry that I don t want to say anything more. I think you d better go, Aunt Celia. We don t understand each other." At these words Mrs. Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive; she glanced at her niece s face, but read no pity there, whereupon she folded her hands upon a black velvet bag which she carried in an attitude that was almost one of prayer. Whatever divinity she prayed to, if pray she did, at any rate she recovered her dignity in a singular way and faced her niece. "Married love," she said slowly and with emphasis upon every word, "is the most sacred of all loves. The love of husband and wife is the most holy we know. That is the lesson Mamma s children learnt from her; that is what they can never forget. I have tried to speak as she would have wished her daughter to speak. You are her grandchild." Katharine seemed to judge this defence upon its merits, and then to convict it of falsity. "I don t see that there is any excuse for your behavior," she said. At these words Mrs. Milvain rose and stood for a moment beside her niece. She had never met with such treatment before, and she did not know with what weapons to break down the terrible wall of resistance offered her by one who, by virtue of youth and beauty and sex, should have been all tears and supplications. But Mrs. Milvain herself was obstinate; upon a matter of this kind she could not admit that she was either beaten or mistaken. She beheld herself the champion of married love in its purity and supremacy; what her niece stood for she was quite unable to say, but she was filled with the gravest suspicions. The old woman and the young woman stood side by side in unbroken silence. Mrs. Milvain could not make up her mind to withdraw while her principles trembled in the balance and her curiosity remained unappeased. She ransacked her mind for some question that should force Katharine to enlighten her, but the supply was limited, the choice difficult, and while she hesitated the door opened and William Rodney came in. He carried in his hand an enormous and splendid bunch of white and purple flowers, and, either not seeing Mrs. Milvain, or disregarding her, he advanced straight to Katharine, and presented the flowers with the words: "These are for you, Katharine." Katharine took them with a glance that Mrs. Milvain did not fail to intercept. But with all her experience, she did not know what to make of it. She watched anxiously for further illumination. William greeted her without obvious sign of guilt, and, | relics from the drawing-room. "Ah, Cassandra is still with you," she remarked. "And did William send you those lovely flowers?" Katharine sat down opposite her aunt and said neither yes nor no. She looked past her, and it might have been thought that she was considering very critically the pattern of the curtains. Another advantage of the basement, from Mrs. Milvain s point of view, was that it made it necessary to sit very close together, and the light was dim compared with that which now poured through three windows upon Katharine and the basket of flowers, and gave even the slight angular figure of Mrs. Milvain herself a halo of gold. "They re from Stogdon House," said Katharine abruptly, with a little jerk of her head. Mrs. Milvain felt that it would be easier to tell her niece what she wished to say if they were actually in physical contact, for the spiritual distance between them was formidable. Katharine, however, made no overtures, and Mrs. Milvain, who was possessed of rash but heroic courage, plunged without preface: "People are talking about you, Katharine. That is why I have come this morning. You forgive me for saying what I d much rather not say? What I say is only for your own sake, my child." "There s nothing to forgive yet, Aunt Celia," said Katharine, with apparent good humor. "People are saying that William goes everywhere with you and Cassandra, and that he is always paying her attentions. At the Markhams dance he sat out five dances with her. At the Zoo they were seen alone together. They left together. They never came back here till seven in the evening. But that is not all. They say his manner is very marked he is quite different when she is there." Mrs. Milvain, whose words had run themselves together, and whose voice had raised its tone almost to one of protest, here ceased, and looked intently at Katharine, as if to judge the effect of her communication. A slight rigidity had passed over Katharine s face. Her lips were pressed together; her eyes were contracted, and they were still fixed upon the curtain. These superficial changes covered an extreme inner loathing such as might follow the display of some hideous or indecent spectacle. The indecent spectacle was her own action beheld for the first time from the outside; her aunt s words made her realize how infinitely repulsive the body of life is without its soul.<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>she said at length. Mrs. Milvain made a gesture as if to bring her closer, but it was not returned. "We all know how good you are how unselfish how you sacrifice yourself to others. But you ve been too unselfish, Katharine. You have made Cassandra happy, and she has taken advantage of your goodness." "I don t understand, Aunt Celia," said Katharine. "What has Cassandra done?" "Cassandra has behaved in a way that I could not have thought possible," said Mrs. Milvain warmly. "She has been utterly selfish utterly heartless. I must speak to her before I go." "I don t understand," Katharine persisted. Mrs. Milvain looked at her. Was it possible that Katharine really doubted? That there was something that Mrs. Milvain herself did not understand? She braced herself, and pronounced the tremendous words: "Cassandra has stolen William s love." Still the words seemed to have curiously little effect. "Do you mean," said Katharine, "that he has fallen in love with her?" "There are ways of _making_ men fall in love with one, Katharine." Katharine remained silent. The silence alarmed Mrs. Milvain, and she began hurriedly: "Nothing would have made me say these things but your own good. I have not wished to interfere; I have not wished to give you pain. I am a useless old woman. I have no children of my own. I only want to see you happy, Katharine." Again she stretched forth her arms, but they remained empty. "You are not going to say these things to Cassandra," said Katharine suddenly. "You ve said them to me; that s enough." Katharine spoke so low and with such restraint that Mrs. Milvain had to strain to catch her words, and when she heard them she was dazed by them. "I ve made you angry! I knew I should!" she exclaimed. She quivered, and a kind of sob shook her; but even to have made Katharine angry was some relief, and allowed her to feel some of the agreeable sensations of martyrdom. "Yes," said Katharine, standing up, "I m so angry that I don t want to say anything more. I think you d better go, Aunt Celia. We don t understand each other." At these words Mrs. Milvain looked for a moment terribly apprehensive; she glanced at her niece s face, but read no pity there, whereupon | Night And Day |
"She will be late," | Sir Thomas | how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out | wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is | went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it | whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing | she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is | "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into | was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling "the turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other. CHAPTER XXIII "But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in | without me, ma'am" said Fanny, in a self-denying tone. "But my mother will have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am." "That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment I have something to say to you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew more anxious perhaps than she ought to be for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner." "Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"<|quote|>"She will be late,"</|quote|>said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own. "Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go." "Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in | Mansfield Park |
"They don't like him much as Master." | Tony Last | very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past | "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery | And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop | footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing | as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat | you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She | me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village... she was in a terrible state, poor child, what with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen, Jock coming and her surprise at seeing him, and then his telling her... It's awful for Jock... She may know at half-past five or a bit earlier." "It's a pity you don't play patience," said Mrs Rattery. "In a way I shall feel happier when she knows... it feels all wrong as it is at present, having it as a secret that Brenda doesn't know... I'm not sure how she fits in her day. I suppose her last lecture is over at about five... I wonder if she goes home first to change if she's going out to tea or cocktails. She can't sit about much in the flat, it's so small." Mrs Rattery brooded over her chequer of cards and then drew them towards her into a heap, haphazard once more and without meaning; it had nearly come to a solution that time, but for a six of diamonds out of place, and a stubbornly congested patch at one corner, where nothing could be made to move. "It's a heart-breaking game," she said. The clock struck again. "Is that only a quarter-past?... You know, I think I should | face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask, "What are you going to do while you're waiting?" "I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful."<|quote|>"They don't like him much as Master."</|quote|>Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out | A Handful Of Dust |
"Yes, I know." | Brenda | Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for | Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. | friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He | well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage | said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps | train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice | the same meal. They had a printed catalogue telling them which foods contained protein and which starch. Most normal dishes seemed to be compact of both, so that it was fun for Tony and Brenda to choose the menu. Usually it ended by their declaring some food "joker". "I'm sure it does me a great deal of good." "Yes, darling, and when we get tired of it we might try an alphabetical diet, having things beginning with a different letter every day. J would be hungry, nothing but jam and jellied eels... What are your plans for the afternoon?" "Nothing much. Carter's coming up at five to go over a few things. I may go to Pigstanton after luncheon. I think we've got a tenant for Lowater Farm but it's been empty some time and I ought to see how much needs doing to it." "I wouldn't say "no" to going in to the "movies"." "All right. I can easily leave Lowater till Monday." "And we might go to Woolworth's afterwards, eh?" What with Brenda's pretty ways and Tony's good sense, it was not surprising that their friends pointed to them as a pair who were pre-eminently successful in solving the problem of getting along well together. The pudding, without protein, was unattractive. Five minutes afterwards a telegram was brought in. Tony opened it and said "Hell." "Badders?" "Something too horrible has happened. Look at this." Brenda read. "_Arriving 3.18 so looking forward visit. Beaver._" And asked, "What's Beaver?" "It's a young man." "That sounds all right." "Oh no it's not. Wait till you see him." "What's he coming here for? Did you ask him to stay?" "I suppose I did in a vague kind of way. I went to Bratt's one evening and he was the only chap there so we had some drinks and he said something about wanting to see the house..." "I suppose you were tight." "Not really, but I never thought he'd hold it against me." "Well, it jolly well serves you right. That's what comes of going up to London on business and leaving me alone here... Who is he anyway?" "Just a young man. His mother keeps that shop." "I used to know her. She's hell. Come to think of it we owe her some money." "Look here, we must put a call through and say we're ill." "Too late, he's in the train now, recklessly mixing starch and protein in the Great Western three and sixpenny lunch... Anyway, he can go into Galahad. No one who sleeps there ever comes again--the bed's agony I believe." "What on earth are we going to do with him? It's too late to get anyone else." "You go over to Pigstanton. I'll look after him. It's easier alone. We can take him to the movies to-night, and to-morrow he can see over the house. If we're lucky he may go up by the evening train. Does he have to work on Monday morning?" "I shouldn't know." * * * * * Three-eighteen was far from being the most convenient time for arrival. One reached the house at about a quarter to four and if, like Beaver, one was a stranger, there was an awkward time until tea; but without Tony there to make her self-conscious, Brenda could carry these things off quite gracefully and Beaver was so seldom wholly welcome anywhere that he was not sensitive to the slight constraint of his reception. She met him in what was still called the smoking-room; it was in some ways the least gloomy place in the house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," John's voice fell into a liturgical sing-song, "silly feet and silly toes, silly head and silly clothes..." "Now you eat up your supper," said nanny.) * * * * * That evening before dinner Tony came up behind Brenda as she sat at her dressing table and made a face over her shoulder in the glass. "I feel rather guilty about Beaver--going off and leaving you like that. You were heavenly to him." She said, "Oh, it wasn't bad really. He's rather pathetic." Farther down the passage Beaver examined his room, with the care of an experienced guest. There was no reading lamp. The inkpot was dry. The fire had been lit but had gone out. The bathroom, he had already discovered, was a great distance away, up a flight of turret steps. He did not at all like the look or feel of the bed; the springs were broken in the centre and it creaked ominously when he lay down to try it. The return ticket, third-class, had been eighteen shillings. Then there would be tips. Owing to Tony's feeling of guilt they had champagne for dinner, which neither he nor Brenda particularly liked. Nor, as it happened, did Beaver, but he was glad that it was there. It was decanted into a tall jug and was carried round the little table, between the three of them, as a pledge of hospitality. Afterwards they drove into Pigstanton to the Picture-drome, where there was a film Beaver had seen some months before. When they got back there was a grog tray and some sandwiches in the smoking-room. They talked about the film but Beaver did not let on that he had seen it. Tony took him to the door of Sir Galahad. "I hope you sleep well." "I'm sure I shall." "D'you like to be called in the morning?" "May I ring?" "Certainly. Got everything you want?" "Yes, thanks. Good night." "Good night." But when he got back he said, "You know, I feel awful about Beaver." "Oh, Beaver's all right," said Brenda. But he was far from being comfortable and as he rolled patiently about the bed in quest of a position in which it was possible to go to sleep, he reflected that, since he had no intention of coming to the house again, he would give the butler nothing and only five shillings to the footman who was looking | house. She said, "It is nice that you were able to come. I must break it to you at once that we haven't got a party. I'm afraid you'll be terribly bored... Tony had to go out but he'll be in soon... was the train crowded? It often is on Saturdays... would you like to come outside? It'll be dark soon and we might get some of the sun while we can..." and so on. If Tony had been there it would have been difficult, for she would have caught his eye and her manner as ch?telaine would have collapsed. Beaver was well used to making conversation, so they went out together through the french windows on to the terrace, down the steps, into the Dutch garden, and back round the orangery without suffering a moment's real embarrassment. She even heard herself telling Beaver that his mother was one of her oldest friends. Tony returned in time for tea. He apologized for not being at home to greet his guest and almost immediately went out again to interview the agent in his study. Brenda asked about London and what parties there were. Beaver was particularly knowledgeable. "Polly Cockpurse is having one soon."<|quote|>"Yes, I know."</|quote|>"Are you coming up for it?" "I don't expect so. We never go anywhere nowadays." The jokes that had been going round for six weeks were all new to Brenda; they had become polished and perfected with repetition and Beaver was able to bring them out with good effect. He told her of numerous changes of alliance among her friends. "What's happening to Mary and Simon?" "Oh, didn't you know? That's broken up." "When?" "It began in Austria this summer..." "And Billy Angmering?" "He's having a terrific walk out with a girl called Sheila Shrub." "And the Helm-Hubbards?" "That marriage isn't going too well either... Daisy has started a new restaurant. It's going very well... and there's a new night club called the Warren..." "Dear me," Brenda said at last. "What fun everyone seems to be having." After tea John Andrew was brought in and quickly usurped the conversation. "How do you do?" he said. "I didn't know you were coming. Daddy said he had a week-end to himself for once. Do you hunt?" "Not for a long time." "Ben says it stands to reason everyone ought to hunt who can afford to, for the good of the country." "Perhaps I can't afford to." "Are you poor?" "Please, Mr Beaver, you mustn't let him bore you." "Yes, very poor." "Poor enough to call people tarts?" "Yes, quite poor enough." "How did you get poor?" "I always have been." "Oh." John lost interest in this topic. "The grey horse at the farm has got worms." "How do you know?" "Ben says so. Besides, you've only got to look at his dung." "Oh dear," said Brenda, "what would nanny say if she heard you talking like that?" "How old are you?" "Twenty-five. How old are you?" "What do you do?" "Nothing much." "Well, if I was you I'd do something and earn some money. Then you'd be able to hunt." "But I shouldn't be able to call people tarts." "I don't see any point in that anyway." (Later, in the nursery, while he was having his supper, John said: "I think Mr Beaver's a very silly man, don't you?" "I'm sure I don't know," said nanny. "I think he's the silliest man who's ever been here." "Comparisons are odious." "There just isn't anything nice about him. He's got a silly voice and a silly face, silly eyes and silly nose," | A Handful Of Dust |
Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: | No speaker | said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but | what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of | sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that | but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his | you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can | and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. | at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?" "Certainly, my dear." "To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--" "Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End." It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. "Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening. CHAPTER XXXIX Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles s dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the incidents of the Schlegels campaign: the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother s legacy, his father s marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howards End was the objective, and, though he disliked the house, was determined to defend it. Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions: his sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; men can always be more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of independent means need encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only to move into another. His was the leisure without sympathy--an attitude as fatal as the strenuous; a little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, | London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did." She controlled herself for the last time. "No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question."<|quote|>Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered:</|quote|>"I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has | Howards End |
replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her, | No speaker | such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you | deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are | years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you | said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I | remembering the original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without bringing the brother too." Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss | more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend. "When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she, "and feel how very kind you were." "You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without bringing the brother too." Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this necklace she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never | than before, and proposed their going up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts "But what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss Crawford. "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?" And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal. "You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me." Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend. "When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she, "and feel how very kind you were." "You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without bringing the brother too." Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this necklace she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!" He turned back. "I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" "If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again. "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is." "My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great | acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend. "When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she, "and feel how very kind you were." "You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must think of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without bringing the brother too." Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness. "My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the world? or perhaps" looking archly "you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought. "Well, then,"<|quote|>replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all believing her,</|quote|>"to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words." Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in this necklace she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before. CHAPTER XXVII On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle a chain for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest | Mansfield Park |
"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." | A sailor | pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. | a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken | tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, | this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you | beam beneath the trap-door. As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair. "Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?" Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud _flap_, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you go?" "Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?" "Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat." "Better. Keep you going, my lad." "Will you take my message?" "No, I won't." "You shall have two guineas." "Where are they?" "My mother will gladly give them to you." "Dessay she will." "And you will go?" "Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?" "I? No. I know nothing about the sea." "You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs." "You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily. "Not a bit | his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them. He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem's heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured. "But then he has not so much on his mind as I have," thought Don. "Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW TO ESCAPE? _Rumble_! _Bump_! Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor. What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks? Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep. _Crash_! That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door. As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair. "Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?" Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud _flap_, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you go?" "Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?" "Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat." "Better. Keep you going, my lad." "Will you take my message?" "No, I won't." "You shall have two guineas." "Where are they?" "My mother will gladly give them to you." "Dessay she will." "And you will go?" "Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?" "I? No. I know nothing about the sea." "You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs." "You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily. "Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched." "Flogged?" "That's it." "For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?" "For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won't hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me." "Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?" came from below. "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the sailor. "Wasn't that the man who had us shut up here?" cried Don. "To be sure: Bosun Jones," said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend. "You'll take my message?" "Nay, not I," said the man, shaking his head. "There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads." _Bang_! The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare. "Mornin', Mas' Don," he said. "Rum game, arn't it?" "Do you think he'll take my message, Jem?" "Not a bit on it, sir. | and then, as the two prisoners stood in the darkness listening, there was a rasping noise, and then a crash, which Don interpreted to mean that the heavy step ladder had been dragged away and half laid, half thrown upon the floor below. Then the sounds died away. "This is a happy sort o' life, Mas' Don," said Jem, breaking the silence. "What's to be done next? Oh! My head, my head!" "I don't know, Jem," said Don despondently. "It's enough to make one wish one was dead." "Dead! Wish one was dead, sir? Oh, come. It's bad enough to be knocked down and have the headache. Dead! No, no. Where did he say them bags was?" "I don't know, Jem." "Well, let's look. I want to lie down and have a sleep." "Sleep? At a time like this!" "Why not, sir? I'm half asleep now. Can't do anything better as I see." "Jem," said Don passionately, "we're being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear." "But we must bear it, sir. That's what you've got to do when you're punished. Don't take on, sir. P'r'aps, it won't seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about." Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account. "Justly punished," he kept muttering; "justly punished, and now it is too late--too late." "Here y'are, Mas' Don," cried Jem; "lots of 'em, and I can't help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off." Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks. "There!" Jem cried at last; "that's about it. Now, Mas' Don, I've made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down." "No, Jem, no; I'm not sleepy." "Then I must," muttered Jem; and after a little more scuffling noise all was still for a few minutes, after which there was a regular heavy breathing, which told that the great trouble he was in had not been sufficient to keep Jem Wimble awake. Don stood for some time in the darkness, but by degrees a wretched feeling of weariness came over him, and he sat down painfully upon the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin, embracing them, and laying his head upon them. He wanted to think of his position, of his folly, and of the trouble which it had brought upon him. Jem's heavy breathing came regularly from somewhere to his left, and he found himself, as he crouched together there in the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured. "But then he has not so much on his mind as I have," thought Don. "Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW TO ESCAPE? _Rumble_! _Bump_! Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor. What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks? Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep. _Crash_! That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door. As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair. "Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?" Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud _flap_, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you go?" "Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?" "Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat." "Better. Keep you going, my lad." "Will you take my message?" "No, I won't." "You shall have two guineas." "Where are they?" "My mother will gladly give them to you." "Dessay she will." "And you will go?" "Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?" "I? No. I know nothing about the sea." "You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs." "You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily. "Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched." "Flogged?" "That's it." "For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?" "For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won't hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me." "Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?" came from below. "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the sailor. "Wasn't that the man who had us shut up here?" cried Don. "To be sure: Bosun Jones," said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend. "You'll take my message?" "Nay, not I," said the man, shaking his head. "There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads." _Bang_! The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare. "Mornin', Mas' Don," he said. "Rum game, arn't it?" "Do you think he'll take my message, Jem?" "Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o' that." "Will they take us aboard ship?" "Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle's yard 'll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o' one o' the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day." "Jem, we must escape them." "All right, Mas' Don, sir. 'Arter breakfast." "Breakfast? Who is to eat breakfast?" "I am, sir. Feels as if it would do me good." "But we must escape, Jem--escape." "Yes, sir; that's right," said Jem, taking off the cup, and sniffing at the jug. "Coffee, sir. Got pretty well knocked about last night, and I'm as sore this morning as if they'd been rolling casks all over me. But a man must eat." "Eat then, and drink then, for goodness' sake," cried Don impatiently. "Thankye, sir," said Jem; and he poured out a cup of steaming coffee, sipped it, sipped again, took three or four mouthfuls of bread and butter, and then drained the cup. "Mas' Don!" he cried, "it's lovely. Do have a cup. Make you see clear." As he spoke he refilled the mug and handed it to Don, who took it mechanically, and placed it to his lips, one drop suggesting another till he had finished the cup. "Now a bit o' bread and butter, Mas' Don?" Don shook his head, but took the top piece, and began mechanically to eat, while Jem partook of another cup, there being a liberal allowance of some three pints. "That's the way, sir. Wonderful what a difference breakfuss makes in a man. Eat away, sir; and if they don't look out we'll give them press-gang." "Yes, but how, Jem? How?" "Lots o' ways, sir. We'll get away, for one thing, or fasten that there trap-door down; and then they'll be the prisoners, not us. 'Nother cup, sir? Go on with the bread and butter. I say, sir, do I look lively?" "Lively?" "I mean much knocked about? My face feels as if the skin was too tight, and as if I couldn't get on my hat." "It does not matter, Jem," said Don, quietly. "You have no hat." "More I haven't. I remember feeling it come off, and it wasn't half wore out. Have some more coffee, Mas' Don. 'Tarnt so good as my Sally makes. I'd forgot all about her just then. Wonder whether | the darkness, envying the poor fellow, much as he was injured. "But then he has not so much on his mind as I have," thought Don. "Once let me get clear away from here, how different I will be." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. HOW TO ESCAPE? _Rumble_! _Bump_! Don started and stared, for something had shaken him as if a sudden blow had been given against the floor. What did it all mean? Where was he? What window was that through which the sun shone brightly, and why was he in that rough loft, in company with a man lying asleep on some sacks? Memory filled up the vacuum directly, and he knew that his head was aching, and that he had been fast asleep. _Crash_! That was a bolt shot back, and the noise which awakened him must have been the big step ladder placed against the beam beneath the trap-door. As Don watched he saw the trap, like a square piece of the floor, rise up slowly, and a rough, red face appear, framed in hair. "Ship ahoy!" shouted the owner of the face. "What cheer, messmates? Want your hot water?" Just then the man, whose hands were out of sight, and who had kept on pushing up the trap-door with his head, gave it a final thrust, and the door fell over with a loud _flap_, which made Jem Wimble sit up, with his face so swollen and bruised that his eyes were half-closed; and this and his dirty face gave him an aspect that was more ludicrous than strange. "What's the matter?" he said sharply. "Who are you? I--where--was--to me. Have I been a-dreaming? No: we're pressed!" "Pressed you are, my lads; and Bosun Jones has sent you up some hot slops and soft tack. There you are. Find your own tablecloth and silliver spoons." He placed a large blue jug before them, in which was some steaming compound, covered by a large breakfast cup, stuck in the mouth of the jug, while on a plate was a fair-sized pile of bread and butter.<|quote|>"There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to."</|quote|>"Look here," said Don quickly. "You know we were taken by the press-gang last night?" "Do I know? Why, didn't I help?" "Oh!" ejaculated Don, with a look of revulsion, which he tried to conceal. "Look here," he said; "if you will take a message for me to my mother, in Jamaica Street, you shall have a guinea." "Well, that's handsome, anyhow," said the man, laughing. "What am I to say to the old lady?" "That we have been seized by the press-gang, and my uncle is to try and get us away." "That all?" "Yes, that's all. Will you go?" "Hadn't you better have your breakfuss?" "Breakfast? No," said Don. "I can't eat." "Better. Keep you going, my lad." "Will you take my message?" "No, I won't." "You shall have two guineas." "Where are they?" "My mother will gladly give them to you." "Dessay she will." "And you will go?" "Do you know what a bosun's mate is, my lad?" "I? No. I know nothing about the sea." "You will afore long. Well, I'll tell you; bosun's mate's a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs." "You are laughing at me," cried Don angrily. "Not a bit of it, my lad. If I was to do what you want, I should be tied up to-morrow, and have my back scratched." "Flogged?" "That's it." "For doing a kind act? For saving my poor mother from trouble and anxiety?" "For not doing my dooty, my lad. There, a voyage or two won't hurt you. Why, I was a pressed man, and look at me." "Main-top ahoy! Are you coming down?" came from below. "Ay, ay, sir!" shouted the sailor. "Wasn't that the man who had us shut up here?" cried Don. "To be sure: Bosun Jones," said the man, running to the trap and beginning to descend. "You'll take my message?" "Nay, not I," said the man, shaking his head. "There, eat your breakfuss, and keep your head to the wind, my lads." _Bang_! The door was shut heavily and the rusty bolt shot. Then the two prisoners listened to the descending footsteps and to the murmur of voices from below, after which Don looked across the steaming jug at Jem, and Jem returned the stare. "Mornin', Mas' Don," he said. "Rum game, arn't it?" "Do you think he'll take my message, Jem?" "Not a bit on it, sir. You may take your oath o' that." "Will they take us aboard ship?" "Yes, sir, and make sailors on us, and your uncle's yard 'll go to rack and ruin; and there was two screws out o' one o' the shutter hinges as I were going to put in to-day." "Jem, we | Don Lavington |
"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you" | Polina Alexandrovna | that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great | decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little | be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without | come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and | am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. | a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have | but abuse. "Away with you, you rascals!" she was shouting. "What have my affairs to do with you? Why, in particular, do _you_" here she indicated De Griers "come sneaking here with your goat s beard? And what do _you_" here she turned to Mlle. Blanche "want of me? What are _you_ finicking for?" "Diantre!" muttered Mlle. under her breath, but her eyes were flashing. Then all at once she burst into a laugh and left the room crying to the General as she did so: "Elle vivra cent ans!" "So you have been counting upon my death, have you?" fumed the old lady. "Away with you! Clear them out of the room, Alexis Ivanovitch. What business is it of _theirs?_ It is not _their_ money that I have been squandering, but my own." The General shrugged his shoulders, bowed, and withdrew, with De Griers behind him. "Call Prascovia," commanded the Grandmother, and in five minutes Martha reappeared with Polina, who had been sitting with the children in her own room (having purposely determined not to leave it that day). Her face looked grave and careworn. "Prascovia," began the Grandmother, "is what I have just heard through a side wind true namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too improbable. Suddenly I leapt up with the idea of seeking Astley and forcing him to speak. There could be no doubt that he knew more than I did. Astley? Well, he was another problem for me to solve. Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and I opened it to find Potapitch awaiting me. "Sir," he said, "my mistress is asking for you." "Indeed? But she is just departing, is she not? The train leaves in ten minutes time." "She is uneasy, sir; she cannot rest. Come quickly, sir; do not delay." I ran downstairs at once. The Grandmother was just being carried out of her rooms into the corridor. In her hands she held a roll of bank-notes. "Alexis Ivanovitch," she cried, "walk on ahead, and we will set out again." "But whither, Madame?" "I cannot rest until I have retrieved my losses. March on ahead, and ask me no questions. Play continues until midnight, does it not?" For a moment I stood stupefied stood deep in thought; but it was not long before I had made up my mind. "With your leave, Madame," I said, "I will not go with you." "And why not? What do you mean? Is every one here a stupid good-for-nothing?" "Pardon me, but I have nothing to reproach myself with. I merely will not go. I merely intend neither to witness nor to join in your play. I also beg to return you your five hundred g lden. Farewell." Laying the money upon a little table which the Grandmother s chair happened to be passing, I bowed and withdrew. "What folly!" the Grandmother shouted after me. "Very well, then. Do not come, and I will find my way alone. Potapitch, you must come with me. Lift up the chair, and carry me along." I failed to find Mr. Astley, and returned home. It was now growing late it was past midnight, but I subsequently learnt from Potapitch how the Grandmother s day had ended. She had lost all the money which, earlier in the day, I had got for her paper securities a sum amounting to about ten thousand roubles. This she did under the direction of the Pole whom, that afternoon, she had | namely, that this fool of a stepfather of yours is going to marry that silly whirligig of a Frenchwoman that actress, or something worse? Tell me, is it true?" "I do not know _for certain_, Grandmamma," replied Polina; "but from Mlle. Blanche s account (for she does not appear to think it necessary to conceal anything) I conclude that" "You need not say any more," interrupted the Grandmother energetically. "I understand the situation. I always thought we should get something like this from him, for I always looked upon him as a futile, frivolous fellow who gave himself unconscionable airs on the fact of his being a general (though he only became one because he retired as a colonel). Yes, I know _all_ about the sending of the telegrams to inquire whether the old woman is likely to turn up her toes soon. Ah, they were looking for the legacies! Without money that wretched woman (what is her name? Oh, De Cominges) would never dream of accepting the General and his false teeth no, not even for him to be her lacquey since she herself, they say, possesses a pile of money, and lends it on interest, and makes a good thing out of it. However, it is not _you_, Prascovia, that I am blaming; it was not _you_ who sent those telegrams. Nor, for that matter, do I wish to recall old scores. True, I know that you are a vixen by nature that you are a wasp which will sting one if one touches it yet, my heart is sore for you, for I loved your mother, Katerina. Now, will you leave everything here, and come away with me? Otherwise, I do not know what is to become of you, and it is not right that you should continue living with these people. Nay," she interposed, the moment that Polina attempted to speak, "I have not yet finished. I ask of you nothing in return. My house in Moscow is, as you know, large enough for a palace, and you could occupy a whole floor of it if you liked, and keep away from me for weeks together. Will you come with me or will you not?" "First of all, let me ask of _you_," replied Polina, "whether you are intending to depart at once?" "What? You suppose me to be jesting? I have said that I am going, and I _am_ going. Today I have squandered fifteen thousand roubles at that accursed roulette of yours, and though, five years ago, I promised the people of a certain suburb of Moscow to build them a stone church in place of a wooden one, I have been fooling away my money here! However, I am going back now to build my church." "But what about the waters, Grandmamma? Surely you came here to take the waters?" "You and your waters! Do not anger me, Prascovia. Surely you are trying to? Say, then: will you, or will you not, come with me?" "Grandmamma," Polina replied with deep feeling, "I am very, very grateful to you for the shelter which you have so kindly offered me. Also, to a certain extent you have guessed my position aright, and I am beholden to you to such an extent that it may be that I _will_ come and live with you, and that very soon; yet there are important reasons why why I cannot make up my mind just yet. If you would let me have, say, a couple of weeks to decide in ?" "You mean that you are _not_ coming?"<|quote|>"I mean only that I cannot come just yet. At all events, I could not well leave my little brother and sister here, since, since if I were to leave them they would be abandoned altogether. But if, Grandmamma, you would take the little ones _and_ myself, then, of course, I could come with you, and would do all I could to serve you"</|quote|>(this she said with great earnestness). "Only, without the little ones I _cannot_ come." "Do not make a fuss" (as a matter of fact Polina never at any time either fussed or wept). "The Great Foster-Father" [3] "can find for all his chicks a place. You are not coming without the children? But see here, Prascovia. I wish you well, and nothing but well: yet I have divined the reason why you will not come. Yes, I know all, Prascovia. That Frenchman will never bring you good of any sort." [3] Translated literally The Great Poulterer. Polina coloured hotly, and even I started. "For," thought I to myself, "every one seems to know about that affair. Or perhaps I am the only one who does not know about it?" "Now, now! Do not frown," continued the Grandmother. "But I do not intend to slur things over. You will take care that no harm befalls you, will you not? For you are a girl of sense, and I am sorry for you I regard you in a different light to the rest of them. And now, please, leave me. Good-bye." "But let me stay with you a little longer," said Polina. "No," replied the other; "you need not. Do not bother me, for you and all of them have tired me out." Yet when Polina tried to kiss the Grandmother s hand, the old lady withdrew it, and herself kissed the girl on the cheek. As she passed me, Polina gave me a momentary glance, and then as swiftly averted her eyes. "And good-bye to you, also, Alexis Ivanovitch. The train starts in an hour s time, and I think that you must be weary of me. Take these five hundred g lden for yourself." "I thank you humbly, Madame, but I am ashamed to" "Come, come!" cried the Grandmother so energetically, and with such an air of menace, that I did not dare refuse the money further. "If, when in Moscow, you have no place where you can lay your head," she added, "come and see me, and I will give you a recommendation. Now, Potapitch, get things ready." I ascended to my room, and lay down upon the bed. A whole hour I must have lain thus, with my head resting upon my hand. So the crisis had come! I needed time for its consideration. To-morrow I would have a talk with Polina. Ah! The Frenchman! So, it was true? But how could it be so? Polina and De Griers! What a combination! No, it was too | The Gambler |
"Thank God!" | Mrs. Hilbery | "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come | wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, | behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically | however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father | other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry | she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she | Lammermoor ?" He made his own choice, and before his daughter could protest or make her escape, she found herself being turned by the agency of Sir Walter Scott into a civilized human being. Yet Mr. Hilbery had grave doubts, as he read, whether the process was more than skin-deep. Civilization had been very profoundly and unpleasantly overthrown that evening; the extent of the ruin was still undetermined; he had lost his temper, a physical disaster not to be matched for the space of ten years or so; and his own condition urgently required soothing and renovating at the hands of the classics. His house was in a state of revolution; he had a vision of unpleasant encounters on the staircase; his meals would be poisoned for days to come; was literature itself a specific against such disagreeables? A note of hollowness was in his voice as he read. CHAPTER XXXIII Considering that Mr. Hilbery lived in a house which was accurately numbered in order with its fellows, and that he filled up forms, paid rent, and had seven more years of tenancy to run, he had an excuse for laying down laws for the conduct of those who lived in his house, and this excuse, though profoundly inadequate, he found useful during the interregnum of civilization with which he now found himself faced. In obedience to those laws, Rodney disappeared; Cassandra was dispatched to catch the eleven-thirty on Monday morning; Denham was seen no more; so that only Katharine, the lawful occupant of the upper rooms, remained, and Mr. Hilbery thought himself competent to see that she did nothing further to compromise herself. As he bade her good morning next day he was aware that he knew nothing of what she was thinking, but, as he reflected with some bitterness, even this was an advance upon the ignorance of the previous mornings. He went to his study, wrote, tore up, and wrote again a letter to his wife, asking her to come back on account of domestic difficulties which he specified at first, but in a later draft more discreetly left unspecified. Even if she started the very moment that she got it, he reflected, she would not be home till Tuesday night, and he counted lugubriously the number of hours that he would have to spend in a position of detestable authority alone with his daughter. What was she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was | with his daughter. What was she doing now, he wondered, as he addressed the envelope to his wife. He could not control the telephone. He could not play the spy. She might be making any arrangements she chose. Yet the thought did not disturb him so much as the strange, unpleasant, illicit atmosphere of the whole scene with the young people the night before. His sense of discomfort was almost physical. Had he known it, Katharine was far enough withdrawn, both physically and spiritually, from the telephone. She sat in her room with the dictionaries spreading their wide leaves on the table before her, and all the pages which they had concealed for so many years arranged in a pile. She worked with the steady concentration that is produced by the successful effort to think down some unwelcome thought by means of another thought. Having absorbed the unwelcome thought, her mind went on with additional vigor, derived from the victory; on a sheet of paper lines of figures and symbols frequently and firmly written down marked the different stages of its progress. And yet it was broad daylight; there were sounds of knocking and sweeping, which proved that living people were at work on the other side of the door, and the door, which could be thrown open in a second, was her only protection against the world. But she had somehow risen to be mistress in her own kingdom, assuming her sovereignty unconsciously. Steps approached her unheard. It is true that they were steps that lingered, divagated, and mounted with the deliberation natural to one past sixty whose arms, moreover, are full of leaves and blossoms; but they came on steadily, and soon a tap of laurel boughs against the door arrested Katharine s pencil as it touched the page. She did not move, however, and sat blank-eyed as if waiting for the interruption to cease. Instead, the door opened. At first, she attached no meaning to the moving mass of green which seemed to enter the room independently of any human agency. Then she recognized parts of her mother s face and person behind the yellow flowers and soft velvet of the palm-buds. "From Shakespeare s tomb!" exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, dropping the entire mass upon the floor, with a gesture that seemed to indicate an act of dedication. Then she flung her arms wide and embraced her daughter. "Thank God, Katharine!" she exclaimed.<|quote|>"Thank God!"</|quote|>she repeated. "You ve come back?" said Katharine, very vaguely, standing up to receive the embrace. Although she recognized her mother s presence, she was very far from taking part in the scene, and yet felt it to be amazingly appropriate that her mother should be there, thanking God emphatically for unknown blessings, and strewing the floor with flowers and leaves from Shakespeare s tomb. "Nothing else matters in the world!" Mrs. Hilbery continued. "Names aren t everything; it s what we feel that s everything. I didn t want silly, kind, interfering letters. I didn t want your father to tell me. I knew it from the first. I prayed that it might be so." "You knew it?" Katharine repeated her mother s words softly and vaguely, looking past her. "How did you know it?" She began, like a child, to finger a tassel hanging from her mother s cloak. "The first evening you told me, Katharine. Oh, and thousands of times dinner-parties talking about books the way he came into the room your voice when you spoke of him." Katharine seemed to consider each of these proofs separately. Then she said gravely: "I m not going to marry William. And then there s Cassandra" "Yes, there s Cassandra," said Mrs. Hilbery. "I own I was a little grudging at first, but, after all, she plays the piano so beautifully. Do tell me, Katharine," she asked impulsively, "where did you go that evening she played Mozart, and you thought I was asleep?" Katharine recollected with difficulty. "To Mary Datchet s," she remembered. "Ah!" said Mrs. Hilbery, with a slight note of disappointment in her voice. "I had my little romance my little speculation." She looked at her daughter. Katharine faltered beneath that innocent and penetrating gaze; she flushed, turned away, and then looked up with very bright eyes. "I m not in love with Ralph Denham," she said. "Don t marry unless you re in love!" said Mrs. Hilbery very quickly. "But," she added, glancing momentarily at her daughter, "aren t there different ways, Katharine different ?" "We want to meet as often as we like, but to be free," Katharine continued. "To meet here, to meet in his house, to meet in the street." Mrs. Hilbery ran over these phrases as if she were trying chords that did not quite satisfy her ear. It was plain that she had her sources of information, and, indeed, her bag was stuffed with what she called "kind letters" from the pen of her sister-in-law. "Yes. Or to stay away in the country," Katharine concluded. Mrs. Hilbery paused, looked unhappy, and sought inspiration from the window. "What a comfort he was in that shop how he took me and found the ruins at once how _safe_ I felt with him" "Safe? Oh, no, he s fearfully rash he s always taking risks. He wants to throw up his profession and live in a little cottage and write books, though he hasn t a penny of his own, and there are any number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe | Night And Day |
“Now, why is that, Otto?” | Grandmother | of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and | Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” Grandmother looked interested.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. | 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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 | 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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 | 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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, | 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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 | the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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 | 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.<|quote|>“Now, why is that, Otto?”</|quote|>Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to explain.” 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 | My Antonia |
said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. | No speaker | when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out | best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, | have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not | with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from | Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. | the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to | entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first." "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. | "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"<|quote|>said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off.</|quote|>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them | A Room With A View |
"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." | Winterbourne | t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a | I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t | "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How | dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" | disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited | with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle | impartial parent resumed; "she goes on as if she was. But I ve made Mr. Giovanelli promise to tell me, if SHE doesn t. I should want to write to Mr. Miller about it--shouldn t you?" Winterbourne replied that he certainly should; and the state of mind of Daisy s mamma struck him as so unprecedented in the annals of parental vigilance that he gave up as utterly irrelevant the attempt to place her upon her guard. After this Daisy was never at home, and Winterbourne ceased to meet her at the houses of their common acquaintances, because, as he perceived, these shrewd people had quite made up their minds that she was going too far. They ceased to invite her; and they intimated that they desired to express to observant Europeans the great truth that, though Miss Daisy Miller was a young American lady, her behavior was not representative--was regarded by her compatriots as abnormal. Winterbourne wondered how she felt about all the cold shoulders that were turned toward her, and sometimes it annoyed him to suspect that she did not feel at all. He said to himself that she was too light and childish, too uncultivated and unreasoning, too provincial, to have reflected upon her ostracism, or even to have perceived it. Then at other moments he believed that she carried about in her elegant and irresponsible little organism a defiant, passionate, perfectly observant consciousness of the impression she produced. He asked himself whether Daisy s defiance came from the consciousness of innocence, or from her being, essentially, a young person of the reckless class. It must be admitted that holding one s self to a belief in Daisy s "innocence" came to seem to Winterbourne more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. "Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he | feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much."<|quote|>"I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably."</|quote|>Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!" The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center | Daisy Miller |
Freddy asked him. | No speaker | you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, | who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare | tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little | elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like | attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For | bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." "How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to | I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." "How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?" "Italy." "And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?" "National Gallery." "Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it." "It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy." Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. "And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' is still to write." Silence. Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that you have come." Silence. "Here we are!" called Freddy. "Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow. "In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added apologetically. They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. "It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No apologies are necessary for the pond." George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots. "Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?" No one knew, or seemed to care. "These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming." "Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped himself. Mr. Beebe thought he was not. "Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in. "Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads. "Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. "Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin. The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly. "Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's wonderful, water's simply ripping." "Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun. "Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do." "Apooshoo, kouf." Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply | We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence." "How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!" "Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope." "CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country." Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. "Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon." "Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can't believe he's well." George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture. "Do you really want this bathe?"<|quote|>Freddy asked him.</|quote|>"It is only a pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something better." "Yes--I have said 'Yes' already." Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads. "And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?" "I did not. Miss Lavish told me." "When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of Coincidence.'" No enthusiasm. "Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect." To his relief, George began to talk. "It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--" "You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Where did | A Room With A View |
“This?” | Mavro Michaelis | silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. | made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I | look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in | have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” “That was a long time ago.” The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air. “Then he killed | garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet. “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?” “Don’t belong to any.” “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” “That was a long time ago.” The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air. “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. “Who did?” “I have a way of finding out.” “You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.” “He murdered her.” “It was an accident, George.” Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!” “I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I | his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn. About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen. But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him. “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?” “Twelve years.” “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?” The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet. “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?” “Don’t belong to any.” “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” “That was a long time ago.” The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air. “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. “Who did?” “I have a way of finding out.” “You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.” “He murdered her.” “It was an accident, George.” Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!” “I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.” Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car. “How could she of been like that?” “She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h—” He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand. “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?” This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light. Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind. “I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a | think this afternoon.” “Very well.” “It’s impossible this afternoon. Various—” We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world. I called Gatsby’s house a few minutes later, but the line was busy. I tried four times; finally an exasperated central told me the wire was being kept open for long distance from Detroit. Taking out my timetable, I drew a small circle around the three-fifty train. Then I leaned back in my chair and tried to think. It was just noon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When I passed the ash-heaps on the train that morning I had crossed deliberately to the other side of the car. I supposed there’d be a curious crowd around there all day with little boys searching for dark spots in the dust, and some garrulous man telling over and over what had happened, until it became less and less real even to him and he could tell it no longer, and Myrtle Wilson’s tragic achievement was forgotten. Now I want to go back a little and tell what happened at the garage after we left there the night before. They had difficulty in locating the sister, Catherine. She must have broken her rule against drinking that night, for when she arrived she was stupid with liquor and unable to understand that the ambulance had already gone to Flushing. When they convinced her of this, she immediately fainted, as if that was the intolerable part of the affair. Someone, kind or curious, took her in his car and drove her in the wake of her sister’s body. Until long after midnight a changing crowd lapped up against the front of the garage, while George Wilson rocked himself back and forth on the couch inside. For a while the door of the office was open, and everyone who came into the garage glanced irresistibly through it. Finally someone said it was a shame, and closed the door. Michaelis and several other men were with him; first, four or five men, later two or three men. Still later Michaelis had to ask the last stranger to wait there fifteen minutes longer, while he went back to his own place and made a pot of coffee. After that, he stayed there alone with Wilson until dawn. About three o’clock the quality of Wilson’s incoherent muttering changed—he grew quieter and began to talk about the yellow car. He announced that he had a way of finding out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen. But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him. “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?” “Twelve years.” “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?” The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet. “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?” “Don’t belong to any.” “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” “That was a long time ago.” The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air. “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. “Who did?” “I have a way of finding out.” “You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.” “He murdered her.” “It was an accident, George.” Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!” “I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.” Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car. “How could she of been like that?” “She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h—” He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand. “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?” This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light. Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind. “I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window” —with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it— “and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’ ” Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night. “God sees everything,” repeated Wilson. “That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he awoke four hours later and hurried back to the garage, Wilson was gone. His movements—he was on foot all the time—were afterward traced to Port Roosevelt and then to Gad’s Hill, where he bought a sandwich that he didn’t eat, and a cup of coffee. He must have been tired and walking slowly, for he didn’t reach Gad’s Hill until noon. Thus far there was no difficulty in accounting for his time—there were boys who had seen a man “acting sort of crazy,” and motorists at whom he stared oddly from the side of the road. Then for three hours he disappeared from view. The police, on the strength of what he said to Michaelis, that he “had a way of finding out,” supposed that he spent that time going from garage to garage thereabout, inquiring for a yellow car. On the other hand, no garage man who had seen him ever came forward, and perhaps he had an easier, surer way of finding out what he wanted to know. By half-past two he was in West Egg, where he asked someone the way to Gatsby’s house. So by that time he knew Gatsby’s name. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ At two o’clock Gatsby put on his | out whom the yellow car belonged to, and then he blurted out that a couple of months ago his wife had come from the city with her face bruised and her nose swollen. But when he heard himself say this, he flinched and began to cry “Oh, my God!” again in his groaning voice. Michaelis made a clumsy attempt to distract him. “How long have you been married, George? Come on there, try and sit still a minute, and answer my question. How long have you been married?” “Twelve years.” “Ever had any children? Come on, George, sit still—I asked you a question. Did you ever have any children?” The hard brown beetles kept thudding against the dull light, and whenever Michaelis heard a car go tearing along the road outside it sounded to him like the car that hadn’t stopped a few hours before. He didn’t like to go into the garage, because the work bench was stained where the body had been lying, so he moved uncomfortably around the office—he knew every object in it before morning—and from time to time sat down beside Wilson trying to keep him more quiet. “Have you got a church you go to sometimes, George? Maybe even if you haven’t been there for a long time? Maybe I could call up the church and get a priest to come over and he could talk to you, see?” “Don’t belong to any.” “You ought to have a church, George, for times like this. You must have gone to church once. Didn’t you get married in a church? Listen, George, listen to me. Didn’t you get married in a church?” “That was a long time ago.” The effort of answering broke the rhythm of his rocking—for a moment he was silent. Then the same half-knowing, half-bewildered look came back into his faded eyes. “Look in the drawer there,” he said, pointing at the desk. “Which drawer?” “That drawer—that one.” Michaelis opened the drawer nearest his hand. There was nothing in it but a small, expensive dog-leash, made of leather and braided silver. It was apparently new.<|quote|>“This?”</|quote|>he inquired, holding it up. Wilson stared and nodded. “I found it yesterday afternoon. She tried to tell me about it, but I knew it was something funny.” “You mean your wife bought it?” “She had it wrapped in tissue paper on her bureau.” Michaelis didn’t see anything odd in that, and he gave Wilson a dozen reasons why his wife might have bought the dog-leash. But conceivably Wilson had heard some of these same explanations before, from Myrtle, because he began saying “Oh, my God!” again in a whisper—his comforter left several explanations in the air. “Then he killed her,” said Wilson. His mouth dropped open suddenly. “Who did?” “I have a way of finding out.” “You’re morbid, George,” said his friend. “This has been a strain to you and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’d better try and sit quiet till morning.” “He murdered her.” “It was an accident, George.” Wilson shook his head. His eyes narrowed and his mouth widened slightly with the ghost of a superior “Hm!” “I know,” he said definitely. “I’m one of these trusting fellas and I don’t think any harm to nobody, but when I get to know a thing I know it. It was the man in that car. She ran out to speak to him and he wouldn’t stop.” Michaelis had seen this too, but it hadn’t occurred to him that there was any special significance in it. He believed that Mrs. Wilson had been running away from her husband, rather than trying to stop any particular car. “How could she of been like that?” “She’s a deep one,” said Wilson, as if that answered the question. “Ah-h-h—” He began to rock again, and Michaelis stood twisting the leash in his hand. “Maybe you got some friend that I could telephone for, George?” This was a forlorn hope—he was almost sure that Wilson had no friend: there was not enough of him for his wife. He was glad a little later when he noticed a change in the room, a blue quickening by the window, and realized that dawn wasn’t far off. About five o’clock it was blue enough outside to snap off the light. Wilson’s glazed eyes turned out to the ash-heaps, where small grey clouds took on fantastic shapes and scurried here and there in the faint dawn wind. “I spoke to her,” he muttered, after a long silence. “I told her she might fool me but she couldn’t fool God. I took her to the window” —with an effort he got up and walked to the rear window and leaned with his face pressed against it— “and I said ‘God knows what you’ve been doing, everything you’ve been doing. You may fool me, but you can’t fool God!’ ” Standing behind him, Michaelis saw with a shock that he was looking at the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, which had just emerged, pale and enormous, from the dissolving night. “God sees everything,” repeated Wilson. “That’s an advertisement,” Michaelis assured him. Something made him turn away from the window and look back into the room. But Wilson stood there a long time, his face close to the window pane, nodding into the twilight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ By six o’clock Michaelis was worn out, and grateful for the sound of a car stopping outside. It was one of the watchers of the night before who had promised to come back, so he cooked breakfast for three, which he and the other man ate together. Wilson was quieter now, and Michaelis went home to sleep; when he | The Great Gatsby |
"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?" | Henry Tilney | sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it | me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to | He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he | miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they | him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" | disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father | s affection did not make amends for this thoughtlessness in his sister. She was almost as far from believing as from wishing it to be sincere; for she had not forgotten that he could mistake, and his assertion of the offer and of her encouragement convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, she gained but little; her chief profit was in wonder. That he should think it worth his while to fancy himself in love with her was a matter of lively astonishment. Isabella talked of his attentions; _she_ had never been sensible of any; but Isabella had said many things which she hoped had been spoken in haste, and would never be said again; and upon this she was glad to rest altogether for present ease and comfort. CHAPTER 19 A few days passed away, and Catherine, though not allowing herself to suspect her friend, could not help watching her closely. The result of her observations was not agreeable. Isabella seemed an altered creature. When she saw her, indeed, surrounded only by their immediate friends in Edgar s Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change of manners was so trifling that, had it gone no farther, it might have passed unnoticed. A something of languid indifference, or of that boasted absence of mind which Catherine had never heard of before, would occasionally come across her; but had nothing worse appeared, _that_ might only have spread a new grace and inspired a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public, admitting Captain Tilney s attentions as readily as they were offered, and allowing him almost an equal share with James in her notice and smiles, the alteration became too positive to be passed over. What could be meant by such unsteady conduct, what her friend could be at, was beyond her comprehension. Isabella could not be aware of the pain she was inflicting; but it was a degree of wilful thoughtlessness which Catherine could not but resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him grave and uneasy; and however careless of his present comfort the woman might be who had given him her heart, to _her_ it was always an object. For poor Captain Tilney too she was greatly concerned. Though his looks did not please her, his name was a passport to her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for, in spite of what she had believed herself to overhear in the pump-room, his behaviour was so incompatible with a knowledge of Isabella s engagement that she could not, upon reflection, imagine him aware of it. He might be jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more had seemed implied, the fault must have been in her misapprehension. She wished, by a gentle remonstrance, to remind Isabella of her situation, and make her aware of this double unkindness; but for remonstrance, either opportunity or comprehension was always against her. If able to suggest a hint, Isabella could never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Tilney family became her chief consolation; their journey into Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and Captain Tilney s removal would at least restore peace to every heart but his own. But Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not carried a little too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or Miss Thorpe s, for supposing that her affection, or at least her good behaviour, is only to be secured by her seeing nothing of Captain Tilney? Is he safe only in solitude? Or is her heart constant to him only when unsolicited by anyone else? He cannot think this and you may be sure that he would not have you think it. I will not say, Do not be uneasy, because I know that you are so, at this moment; but be as little uneasy as you can. You have no doubt of the mutual attachment of your brother and your friend; depend upon it, therefore, that real jealousy never can exist between them; depend upon it that no disagreement between them can be of any duration. Their hearts are open to each other, as neither heart can be to you; they know exactly what is required and what can be borne; and you may be certain that one will never tease the other beyond what is known to be pleasant." Perceiving her still to look doubtful and grave, he added, "Though Frederick does not leave Bath with us, he will probably remain but a very short time, perhaps only a few days behind us. His leave of absence will soon expire, and he must return to his regiment. And what will then be their acquaintance? The mess-room will drink Isabella Thorpe for a fortnight, and she will laugh with your brother over poor Tilney s passion for a month." Catherine would contend no longer against comfort. She had resisted its approaches during the whole length of a speech, but it now carried her captive. Henry Tilney must know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears, and resolved never to think so seriously on the subject again. Her resolution was supported by Isabella s behaviour in their parting interview. The Thorpes spent the last evening of Catherine s stay in Pulteney Street, and nothing passed between the lovers to excite her uneasiness, or make her quit them in apprehension. James was in excellent spirits, and Isabella most engagingly placid. | Captain Tilney had at present no intention of removing; he was not to be of the party to Northanger; he was to continue at Bath. When Catherine knew this, her resolution was directly made. She spoke to Henry Tilney on the subject, regretting his brother s evident partiality for Miss Thorpe, and entreating him to make known her prior engagement. "My brother does know it," was Henry s answer. "Does he? Then why does he stay here?" He made no reply, and was beginning to talk of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why do not you persuade him to go away? The longer he stays, the worse it will be for him at last. Pray advise him for his own sake, and for everybody s sake, to leave Bath directly. Absence will in time make him comfortable again; but he can have no hope here, and it is only staying to be miserable." Henry smiled and said, "I am sure my brother would not wish to do that." "Then you will persuade him to go away?" "Persuasion is not at command; but pardon me, if I cannot even endeavour to persuade him. I have myself told him that Miss Thorpe is engaged. He knows what he is about, and must be his own master." "No, he does not know what he is about," cried Catherine; "he does not know the pain he is giving my brother. Not that James has ever told me so, but I am sure he is very uncomfortable."<|quote|>"And are you sure it is my brother s doing?"</|quote|>"Yes, very sure." "Is it my brother s attentions to Miss Thorpe, or Miss Thorpe s admission of them, that gives the pain?" "Is not it the same thing?" "I think Mr. Morland would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man s admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment." Catherine blushed for her friend, and said, "Isabella is wrong. But I am sure she cannot mean to torment, for she is very much attached to my brother. She has been in love with him ever since they first met, and while my father s consent was uncertain, she fretted herself almost into a fever. You know she must be attached to him." "I understand: she is in love with James, and flirts with Frederick." "Oh! no, not flirts. A woman in love with one man cannot flirt with another." "It is probable that she will neither love so well, nor flirt so well, as she might do either singly. The gentlemen must each give up a little." After a short pause, Catherine resumed with, "Then you do not believe Isabella so very much attached to my brother?" "I can have no opinion on that subject." "But what can your brother mean? If he knows her engagement, what can he mean by his behaviour?" "You are a very close questioner." "Am I? I only ask what I want to be told." "But do you only ask what I can be expected to tell?" "Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother s heart." "My brother s heart, as you term it, on the present occasion, I assure you I can only guess at." "Well?" "Well! Nay, if it is to be guesswork, let us all guess for ourselves. To be guided by second-hand conjecture is pitiful. The premises are before you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes a thoughtless young man; he has had about a week s acquaintance with your friend, and he has known her engagement almost as long as he has known her." "Well," said Catherine, after some moments consideration, "_you_ may be able to guess at your brother s intentions from all this; but I am sure I cannot. But is not your father uncomfortable about it? Does not he want Captain Tilney to go away? Sure, if your father were to speak to him, he would go." "My dear Miss Morland," said Henry, "in this amiable solicitude for your brother s comfort, may you not be a little mistaken? Are you not | Northanger Abbey |
said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. | No speaker | his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat | table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. | is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all | of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a | of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light | process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I m hungry in pain. And you want me to tell stories!" Kemp got up. "_You_ didn t do any shooting?" he asked. "Not me," said his visitor. "Some fool I d never seen fired at random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them! I say I want more to eat than this, Kemp." "I ll see what there is to eat downstairs," said Kemp. "Not much, I m afraid." After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast. "This blessed gift of smoking!" | morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. "I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?" "Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I m hungry in pain. And you want me to tell stories!" Kemp got up. "_You_ didn t do any shooting?" he asked. "Not me," said his visitor. "Some fool I d never seen fired at random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse them! I say I want more to eat than this, Kemp." "I ll see what there is to eat downstairs," said Kemp. "Not much, I m afraid." After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was strange to see him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and nares, became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast. "This blessed gift of smoking!" he said, and puffed vigorously. "I m lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy tumbling on you just now! I m in a devilish scrape I ve been mad, I think. The things I have been through! But we will do things yet. Let me tell you" He helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked about him, and fetched a glass from his spare room. "It s wild but I suppose I may drink." "You haven t changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men don t. Cool and methodical after the first collapse. I must tell you. We will work together!" "But how was it all done?" said Kemp, "and how did you get like this?" "For God s sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then I will begin to tell you." But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man s wrist was growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry. Kemp tried to gather what he could. "He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me," said the Invisible Man many times over. "He meant to give me the slip he was always casting about! What a fool I was!" "The cur!" "I should have killed him!" "Where did you get the money?" asked Kemp, abruptly. The Invisible Man was silent for a space. "I can t tell you to-night," he said. He groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible head on invisible hands. "Kemp," he said, "I ve had no sleep for near three days, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon." "Well, have my room have this room." "But how can I sleep? If I sleep he will get away. Ugh! What does it matter?" "What s the shot wound?" asked Kemp, abruptly. "Nothing scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!" "Why not?" The Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp. "Because I ve a particular objection to being caught by my fellow-men," he said slowly. Kemp started. "Fool that I am!" said the Invisible Man, striking the table smartly. "I ve put | shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. "I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?" "Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives,"<|quote|>said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.</|quote|>"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I m hungry in pain. And you want me to tell stories!" Kemp got up. "_You_ didn t do any shooting?" | The Invisible Man |
"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it," | Edna Pontellier | broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him | prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, | a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I | slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her | cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. | come in while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!" They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she | 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 outside the door and smoked. Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front room preparing dinner. She was boiling mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace. Edna, left alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing the greater part of them. She bathed her face, her neck and arms in the basin that stood between the windows. She took off her shoes and stockings and stretched herself in the very center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest thus in a strange, quaint bed, with its sweet country odor of laurel lingering about the sheets and mattress! She stretched her strong limbs that ached a little. She ran her fingers through her loosened hair for a while. She looked at her round arms as she held them straight up and rubbed them one after the other, observing closely, as if it were something she saw for the first time, the fine, firm quality and texture of her flesh. She clasped her hands easily above her head, and it was thus she fell asleep. She slept lightly at first, half awake and drowsily attentive to the things about her. She could hear Madame Antoine's heavy, scraping tread as she walked back and forth on the sanded floor. Some chickens were clucking outside the windows, scratching for bits of gravel in the grass. Later she half heard the voices of Robert and Tonie talking under the shed. She did not stir. Even her eyelids rested numb and heavily over her sleepy eyes. The voices went on Tonie's slow, Acadian drawl, Robert's quick, soft, smooth French. She understood French imperfectly unless directly addressed, and the voices were only part of the other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. When Edna awoke it was with the conviction that she had slept long and soundly. The voices were hushed under the shed. Madame Antoine's step was no longer to be heard in the adjoining room. Even the chickens had gone elsewhere to scratch and cluck. The mosquito bar was drawn over her; the old woman had come in while she slept and let down the bar. Edna arose quietly from the bed, and looking between the curtains of the window, she saw by the slanting rays of the sun that the afternoon was far advanced. Robert was out there under the shed, reclining in the shade against the sloping keel of the overturned boat. He was reading from a book. Tonie was no longer with him. She wondered what had become of the rest of the party. She peeped out at him two or three times as she stood washing herself in the little basin between the windows. Madame Antoine had laid some coarse, clean towels upon a chair, and had placed a box of _poudre de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!" They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of his mother. He had been unwilling to go to bed and had made a scene; whereupon she had taken charge of him and pacified him as well as she could. Raoul had been in bed and asleep for two hours. The youngster was in his long white nightgown, that kept tripping him up as Madame Ratignolle led him along by the hand. With the other chubby fist he rubbed his eyes, which were heavy with sleep and ill humor. Edna took him in her arms, and seating herself in the rocker, began to coddle and caress him, calling him all manner of tender names, soothing him to sleep. It was not more than nine o'clock. No one had yet gone to bed but the children. L once had been very uneasy at first, Madame Ratignolle said, and had wanted to start at once for the _Ch ni re_. But Monsieur Farival had assured him that his wife was only overcome with sleep and fatigue, that Tonie would bring her safely back later in the day; and he had thus been dissuaded from crossing the bay. He had gone over to Klein's, looking up some cotton broker whom he wished to see in regard to securities, exchanges, stocks, bonds, or something of the sort, Madame Ratignolle did not remember what. He said he would not remain away late. She herself was suffering from heat and oppression, she said. She carried a bottle of salts and a large fan. She would not consent to remain with Edna, for Monsieur Ratignolle was alone, and he detested above all things to be left alone. When Etienne had fallen asleep Edna bore him into the back room, and Robert went and lifted | de riz_ within easy reach. Edna dabbed the powder upon her nose and cheeks as she looked at herself closely in the little distorted mirror which hung on the wall above the basin. Her eyes were bright and wide awake and her face glowed. When she had completed her toilet she walked into the adjoining room. She was very hungry. No one was there. But there was a cloth spread upon the table that stood against the wall, and a cover was laid for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Edna bit a piece from the brown loaf, tearing it with her strong, white teeth. She poured some of the wine into the glass and drank it down. Then she went softly out of doors, and plucking an orange from the low-hanging bough of a tree, threw it at Robert, who did not know she was awake and up. An illumination broke over his whole face when he saw her and joined her under the orange tree. "How many years have I slept?" she inquired. "The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as past relics. How many ages ago did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? and when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?" He familiarly adjusted a ruffle upon her shoulder. "You have slept precisely one hundred years. I was left here to guard your slumbers; and for one hundred years I have been out under the shed reading a book. The only evil I couldn't prevent was to keep a broiled fowl from drying up."<|quote|>"If it has turned to stone, still will I eat it,"</|quote|>said Edna, moving with him into the house. "But really, what has become of Monsieur Farival and the others?" "Gone hours ago. When they found that you were sleeping they thought it best not to awake you. Any way, I wouldn't have let them. What was I here for?" "I wonder if L once will be uneasy!" she speculated, as she seated herself at table. "Of course not; he knows you are with me," Robert replied, as he busied himself among sundry pans and covered dishes which had been left standing on the hearth. "Where are Madame Antoine and her son?" asked Edna. "Gone to Vespers, and to visit some friends, I believe. I am to take you back in Tonie's boat whenever you are ready to go." He stirred the smoldering ashes till the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her with no mean repast, dripping the coffee anew and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little else than the mullets, but while Edna slept Robert had foraged the island. He was childishly gratified to discover her appetite, and to see the relish with which she ate the food which he had procured for her. "Shall we go right away?" she asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf. "The sun isn't as low as it will be in two hours," he answered. "The sun will be gone in two hours." "Well, let it go; who cares!" They waited a good while under the orange trees, till Madame Antoine came back, panting, waddling, with a thousand apologies to explain her absence. Tonie did not dare to return. He was shy, and would not willingly face any woman except his mother. It was very pleasant to stay there under the orange trees, while the sun dipped lower and lower, turning the western sky to flaming copper and gold. The shadows lengthened and crept out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass. Edna and Robert both sat upon the ground that is, he lay upon the ground beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine seated her fat body, broad and squat, upon a bench beside the door. She had been talking all the afternoon, and had wound herself up to the storytelling pitch. And what stories she told them! But twice in her life she had left the _Ch ni re Caminada_, and then for the briefest span. All her years she had squatted and waddled there upon the island, gathering legends of the Baratarians and the sea. The night came on, with the moon to lighten it. Edna could hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold. When she and Robert stepped into Tonie's boat, with the red lateen sail, misty spirit forms were prowling in the shadows and among the reeds, and upon the water were phantom ships, speeding to cover. XIV The youngest boy, Etienne, had been very naughty, Madame Ratignolle said, as she delivered him into the hands of | The Awakening |
"Yes, sir," | Ramsden | first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," | such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to | go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked | their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; | This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There | canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard | and be roasted and basted by the captain and officers, than by the blacks." "They're not blacks, Jem; and I don't believe about the cannibal work." "Well, they arn't blacks certainly, Mas' Don; but I'm pretty suspicious about the other thing. I once thought as Tomati was laughing at us, but it's all true. Why, what d'yer think I see only yes'day?" "Numbers of things. But what in particular?" "Why, one of the big chiefs who come ashore in that long canoe. You know; the one with a figure-head with its tongue sticking out?" "Yes; I know." "Well, he'd got a flute." "What of that? Men have flutes at home. Uncle Josiah had one." "What was it made on?" whispered Jem. "Box-wood, with ivory mountings." "Well, this chiefs flute was of ivory altogether--I mean, of bone." "Well?" "Guess what bone it was." "How can I tell?" "Bone of a man's leg, Mas' Don; and he killed the man whose bone it was." "How do you know?" "Why, Tomati telled me." "Yes, but it might not be true; perhaps the man was boasting." Don was wearied out with a long day's work, and soon dropped off asleep, to be roused up by the men to take the morning watch. Jem and he rolled unwillingly out of their hammocks, and went on deck, to find all dark; and soon after, cold and uncomfortable, they were leaning over the bulwarks together, talking as they scanned the smooth black sea, and the faint outlines of forest and mountain along the silent shore. "This is what I hate in being a sailor," grumbled Jem. "No sooner have you got comfortably off to sleep, and begun giving your mind to it, than you're roused up to keep some watch." "Yes, it is wearisome, Jem." "Wearisome's nothing to it. I was dreaming, Mas' Don, when they routed us up." "So was I, Jem." "What was you dreaming about, Mas' Don?" "Home." "Hah!" said Jem, with a sigh; "so was I. Wonder what my Sally's doing now." "Sitting down to tea, Jem." "What! In the middle of the night?" "It's the middle of the afternoon now, perhaps, Jem, on the other side of the world." "Dessay it is, sir, if you says so; but I never can understand that kind of talk. Say, my lad, how dark it is! Why if four or five of those great war canoes liked to come out now, with a lot of fighting men aboard, they could take this here ship before we could cry Jack Robinson. Look yonder. Isn't that one stealing out from behind that island?" "No, Jem; I see nothing but shadow." "Then p'r'aps it arn't; but I'm always thinking I see 'em coming out full of men." "Fancy, Jem." "So it is, I s'pose. Know how long we're going to stop here, Mas' Don?" "No, Jem. Getting tired of it?" "Tired? Ay, lad. I want to go home." That morning, about a couple of hours after the watch had been relieved, Don was on deck, when he saw one of the long war canoes, with its hideously carved prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, that I should be sorry for you--either of you--to be guilty of such a mad trick as desertion. If you tried it, you would almost certainly be retaken, and--the punishment must follow. If, on the other hand, you escaped, it would be into the savage country before you, where you would fall into the hands of some enemy tribe, who would kill you both like dogs. I daresay you have heard what takes place afterwards, when the Maori tribes have taken prisoners?" Jem shuddered, but Don made no sign. "Ah! I see you know," continued the captain, "so I need say little more. I am satisfied that you will neither of you be guilty of such an act of madness as you contemplated, especially now that I tell you that I stop at nothing which the law gives me power to do for the preservation of the discipline of my ship. These two lads," he said, turning to give an order, "will be placed in irons for the present." He made a sign, and the two prisoners were taken below deck, and placed in irons. "Better than being hung, my lads," said the armourer gruffly; and soon after they were alone, with a sentry on duty not far from where they were seated. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. TOMATL'S PROMISE. "Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o' thing, Mas' Don," said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don's face not inviting any attempt at conversation. "He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures." "Jem!" said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion's words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; "it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace." "Hush, hush, my lad! Don't take it that way. They arn't so werry heavy, and they don't hurt much." "Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves." "What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard." "It's cruel! It's horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence." "Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry 'll hear you, and have his turn, p'r'aps, at telling tales." "But he had no right to do this, I say." "P'r'aps not, Mas' Don; but skippers does just what they please when they're out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once." "He would not dare," said Don. "Well, if he did, I should have liked to have a few words first with Mr Ramsden; for of all the mean, dirty, sneaking chaps I ever set eyes on, he's about the worst." "A mean, cowardly spy!" cried Don. "Ah, that's it; so he is, Mas' Don; a mean, cowardly spy. I couldn't | prow and feather-decorated occupants, come sweeping along close to the shore and dash right away at great speed. "Wish we was in her," sighed a voice at his ear. Don turned sharply, to find Jem gazing longingly after the flashing paddles of the canoe, one of which was waved at him as they passed. "What for, Jem?" "To get away from here, Mas' Don. Wish you'd alter your mind. I want to see my Sally once more." "Here, you two! This way," said a severe voice; and the stern-looking master came up. "This way. The captain wants a word with both of you." "The captain?" began Don, as his old trouble flashed into his mind. "That will do. Now then, this way," said the master sternly; and he led them to the quarter-deck, where the captain was standing, with a couple of the officers by his side, and, a little distance in front, Ramsden, the sinister-looking seaman who, since the night they were pressed, had always seemed to bear the two Bristolians ill-will. Don and Jem saluted, and stood before their officer, who looked them over searchingly, his eyes resting on theirs in a fierce, penetrating way that was far from pleasant. Then, turning from them contemptuously, he signed to Ramsden to come forward. "Now," he said sharply, "repeat what you told me just now." "Yes, sir. I had to go below yes'day evening when, as I was going along 'tween the 'ammocks, I hears the word _desert_ and I was that took aback, sir, I--" "Ah! You are the sort of man who would be took aback on hearing such a word," said the first lieutenant, with a sneer.<|quote|>"Yes, sir,"</|quote|>said Ramsden. "Let him speak," said the captain, scowling to hide a smile. "Soon as I heard that word _desert_, I felt stopped short like; and then I heard voices making plans for going ashore." "What did they say?" "Can't rec'lect what they said exactly, sir; only as one talked about a boat, and the other about a canoe. It was Lavington as asked about the canoe; and just now, sir, they was watching a canoe that went by, and they exchanged signals." "Yes, I saw them watching that canoe," said the captain, fixing his eyes on Jem. "Yes, sir; and one of the chiefs waved a paddle to them." The captain nodded, and Ramsden was going on with his charge, when he was stopped. "That will do, my man," said the captain; "I know quite enough. Now look here," he continued, turning to Don and Jem, "I am compelled to believe what this man says, for I saw enough to corroborate his testimony; but I will give you an opportunity for defending yourselves. Is what he says true?" Don's lips parted to say it was only about half true; but a feeling of agonised shame checked his words. There was too much truth in it for him to make a bold denial, so he remained silent; and Jem, taking his cue from his companion, was silent too. "Come," said the captain, "I like that. There is honesty in it, my lads; and as you are both young, and pressed men, I will not be so severe as I might for such an offence as yours." "Didn't commit no offence," said Jem sturdily. "Silence, sir! Now then, you know, I suppose, that though we are living a peaceful life out here, these are war times, and the punishment of deserters is--death." Jem started, but Don did not stir. "Now you are both very young, and you have worked so well, and with so much promise of making yourselves sailors, | Don Lavington |
"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil." | Liza | you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great | was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my | very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She | because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for | feel wretched almost every night." At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered. "Do those knockings worry you?" he asked. "I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it." "Tell me, I beg you." "I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak. And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her. But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to | house, but sat up for a good while longer. In the adjoining rooms there was whispering, there was a sound of shuffling slippers and bare feet. "Is she having another attack?" thought Korolyov. He went out to have a look at the patient. By now it was quite light in the rooms, and a faint glimmer of sunlight, piercing through the morning mist, quivered on the floor and on the wall of the drawing-room. The door of Liza's room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair beside her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and wrapped in a shawl. The blinds were down on the windows. "How do you feel?" asked Korolyov. "Well, thank you." He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over her forehead. "You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think of something." She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him. "Does this happen to you often?" he said. She moved her lips, and answered: "Often, I feel wretched almost every night." At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered. "Do those knockings worry you?" he asked. "I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it." "Tell me, I beg you." "I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak. And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her. But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don't give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward, and long. "How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to speak?" And he said what he meant in a roundabout way: "You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied, slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your sleeplessness does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. In reality, such a conversation as this between us now would have been unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not. For our children or grandchildren that question--whether they are right or not--will have been settled. Things will | building material. Korolyov sat down on the planks and went on thinking. "The only person who feels happy here is the governess, and the factory hands are working for her gratification. But that's only apparent: she is only the figurehead. The real person, for whom everything is being done, is the devil." And he thought about the devil, in whom he did not believe, and he looked round at the two windows where the fires were gleaming. It seemed to him that out of those crimson eyes the devil himself was looking at him--that unknown force that had created the mutual relation of the strong and the weak, that coarse blunder which one could never correct. The strong must hinder the weak from living--such was the law of Nature; but only in a newspaper article or in a school book was that intelligible and easily accepted. In the hotchpotch which was everyday life, in the tangle of trivialities out of which human relations were woven, it was no longer a law, but a logical absurdity, when the strong and the weak were both equally victims of their mutual relations, unwillingly submitting to some directing force, unknown, standing outside life, apart from man. So thought Korolyov, sitting on the planks, and little by little he was possessed by a feeling that this unknown and mysterious force was really close by and looking at him. Meanwhile the east was growing paler, time passed rapidly; when there was not a soul anywhere near, as though everything were dead, the five buildings and their chimneys against the grey background of the dawn had a peculiar look--not the same as by day; one forgot altogether that inside there were steam motors, electricity, telephones, and kept thinking of lake-dwellings, of the Stone Age, feeling the presence of a crude, unconscious force.... And again there came the sound: "Dair ... dair ... dair ... dair ..." twelve times. Then there was stillness, stillness for half a minute, and at the other end of the yard there rang out. "Drin ... drin ... drin...." "Horribly disagreeable," thought Korolyov. "Zhuk ... zhuk ..." there resounded from a third place, abruptly, sharply, as though with annoyance-- "Zhuk ... zhuk...." And it took four minutes to strike twelve. Then there was a hush; and again it seemed as though everything were dead. Korolyov sat a little longer, then went to the house, but sat up for a good while longer. In the adjoining rooms there was whispering, there was a sound of shuffling slippers and bare feet. "Is she having another attack?" thought Korolyov. He went out to have a look at the patient. By now it was quite light in the rooms, and a faint glimmer of sunlight, piercing through the morning mist, quivered on the floor and on the wall of the drawing-room. The door of Liza's room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair beside her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and wrapped in a shawl. The blinds were down on the windows. "How do you feel?" asked Korolyov. "Well, thank you." He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over her forehead. "You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think of something." She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him. "Does this happen to you often?" he said. She moved her lips, and answered: "Often, I feel wretched almost every night." At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered. "Do those knockings worry you?" he asked. "I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it." "Tell me, I beg you." "I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak. And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her. But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don't give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward, and long. "How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to speak?" And he said what he meant in a roundabout way: "You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied, slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your sleeplessness does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. In reality, such a conversation as this between us now would have been unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not. For our children or grandchildren that question--whether they are right or not--will have been settled. Things will be clearer for them than for us. Life will be good in fifty years' time; it's only a pity we shall not last out till then. It would be interesting to have a peep at it." "What will our children and grandchildren do?" asked Liza. "I don't know.... I suppose they will throw it all up and go away." "Go where?" "Where?... Why, where they like," said Korolyov; and he laughed. "There are lots of places a good, intelligent person can go to." He glanced at his watch. "The sun has risen, though," he said. "It is time you were asleep. Undress and sleep soundly. Very glad to have made your acquaintance," he went on, pressing her hand. "You are a good, interesting woman. Good-night!" He went to his room and went to bed. In the morning when the carriage was brought round they all came out on to the steps to see him off. Liza, pale and exhausted, was in a white dress as though for a holiday, with a flower in her hair; she looked at him, as yesterday, sorrowfully and intelligently, smiled and talked, and all with an expression as though she wanted to tell him something special, important--him alone. They could hear the larks trilling and the church bells pealing. The windows in the factory buildings were sparkling gaily, and, driving across the yard and afterwards along the road to the station, Korolyov thought neither of the workpeople nor of lake dwellings, nor of the devil, but thought of the time, perhaps close at hand, when life would be as bright and joyous as that still Sunday morning; and he thought how pleasant it was on such a morning in the spring to drive with three horses in a good carriage, and to bask in the sunshine. | in the dark and think of something." She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him. "Does this happen to you often?" he said. She moved her lips, and answered: "Often, I feel wretched almost every night." At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered. "Do those knockings worry you?" he asked. "I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it." "Tell me, I beg you." "I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong." "Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.<|quote|>"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."</|quote|>"Do you read a great deal?" "Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it." "Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov. "No, but I feel...." She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak. And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it--to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her. But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don't give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward, and long. "How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to speak?" And he said what he meant in a roundabout way: "You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied, slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your sleeplessness does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (2) |
"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?" | The Vicar | the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be | to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice | imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good | the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him | your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She | "Well, you _were_, of course, but I refused for you. You know you always hate staying away." "I wouldn't mind coming." "Oh, darling, I wish I'd known. Veronica would have loved it so... but I'm afraid it will be too late now. She's only got a tiny house... to tell you the truth I didn't think you liked her much." "I hated her like hell." "Well, then...?" "Oh, it doesn't matter. I suppose you must go back on Monday? The hounds are meeting on Wednesday, you know." "Are we giving them a lawner?" "Yes, darling, you know we do every year." "So we do." "You couldn't stay down till then?" "Not possibly, darling. You see if I miss one lecture I get right behind and can't follow the next. Besides, I am not mad keen to see the hounds." "Ben was asking if we'd let John go out." "Oh, he's far too young." "Not to hunt. But I thought he might bring his pony to the meet and ride with them to the first covert. He'd love it so." "Is it quite safe?" "Oh, yes, surely?" "Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him." "Do change your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse--Polly slept there two week-ends running, so it can't be too uncomfortable." "She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her." "Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings, I believe." "Yes, I might." * * * * * "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. 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." * * * * * | at her coat. "We must go and see Thunderclap." So Tony returned alone with the buttonholes. After luncheon Brenda said, "Why don't you show Jenny the house?" "Oh yes, _do_." When they reached the morning-room he said, "Brenda's having it done up." There were planks and ladders and heaps of plaster about. "Oh, Teddy, what a shame. I do hate seeing things modernized." "It isn't a room we used very much." "No, but still..." She stirred the mouldings of fleur-de-lis that littered the floor, fragments of tarnished gilding and dusty stencil-work. "You know, Brenda's been a wonderful friend to me. I wouldn't say anything against her... but ever since I came here I've been wondering whether she really understands this beautiful place and all it means to you." "Tell me more about your terrible life," said Tony, leading her back to the central hall. "You _are_ shy of talking about yourself, aren't you, Teddy? It's a mistake, you know, to keep things bottled up. I've been very unhappy too." Tony looked about him desperately in search of help; and help came. "Oh, there you are," said a firm, child's voice. "Come on. We're going down to the woods now. We must hurry, otherwise it will be dark." "Oh, Johnny-boy, must I really? I was just talking to daddy." "_Come on._ It's all arranged. And afterwards you're to be allowed to have tea with me upstairs." Tony crept into the library, habitable to-day, since the workmen were at rest. Brenda found him there two hours later. "_Tony_, here all alone? We thought you were with Jenny. What have you done with her?" "John took her off... just in time before I said something rude." "Oh dear... well there's only me and Polly in the smoking-room. Come and have some tea. You look all funny--have you been asleep?" * * * * * "We must write it down a failure, definitely." "What _does_ the old boy expect? It isn't as though he was everybody's money." "I daresay it would have been all right, if she hadn't got his name wrong." "Anyway, this lets _you_ out. You've done far more than most wives would to cheer the old boy up." "Yes, that's certainly true," said Brenda. [IV] Another five days; then Brenda came to Hetton again. "I shan't be here next week-end," she said, "I'm going to stay with Veronica." "Am I asked?" "Well, you _were_, of course, but I refused for you. You know you always hate staying away." "I wouldn't mind coming." "Oh, darling, I wish I'd known. Veronica would have loved it so... but I'm afraid it will be too late now. She's only got a tiny house... to tell you the truth I didn't think you liked her much." "I hated her like hell." "Well, then...?" "Oh, it doesn't matter. I suppose you must go back on Monday? The hounds are meeting on Wednesday, you know." "Are we giving them a lawner?" "Yes, darling, you know we do every year." "So we do." "You couldn't stay down till then?" "Not possibly, darling. You see if I miss one lecture I get right behind and can't follow the next. Besides, I am not mad keen to see the hounds." "Ben was asking if we'd let John go out." "Oh, he's far too young." "Not to hunt. But I thought he might bring his pony to the meet and ride with them to the first covert. He'd love it so." "Is it quite safe?" "Oh, yes, surely?" "Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him." "Do change your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse--Polly slept there two week-ends running, so it can't be too uncomfortable." "She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her." "Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings, I believe." "Yes, I might." * * * * * "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not a thing." "I haven't mentioned it to Allan. D'you suppose he knows?" "I doubt it." "Oh, Jock, how d'you think it'll end?" "She'll get bored with Beaver soon enough." "The trouble is that he doesn't care for her in the least. 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 | them to the first covert. He'd love it so." "Is it quite safe?" "Oh, yes, surely?" "Bless his heart, I wish I could be here to see him." "Do change your mind." "Oh no, that's quite out of the question. Don't make a thing about it, Tony." That was when she first arrived; later everything got better. Jock was there that week-end, also Allan and Marjorie and another married couple whom Tony had known all his life. Brenda had arranged the party for him and he enjoyed it. He and Allan went out with rook rifles and shot rabbits in the twilight; after dinner the four men played billiard fives while one wife watched. "The old boy's happy as a lark," said Brenda to Marjorie. "He's settling down wonderfully to the new r?gime." They came in breathless and rather flushed for whisky and soda. "Tony nearly had one through the window," said Jock. That night Tony slept in Guinevere. "Everything _is_ all right, isn't it?" he said once. "Yes, of course, darling." "I get depressed down here all alone and imagine things." "You aren't to _brood_, Tony. You know that's one of the things that aren't allowed." "I won't brood any more," said Tony. Next day Brenda came to church with him. She had decided to devote the week-end wholly to him; it would be the last for some time.<|quote|>"And how are the abstruse sciences, Lady Brenda?"</|quote|>"Absorbing." "We shall all be coming to you for advice about our overdrafts." "Ha, ha." "And how's Thunderclap?" asked Miss Tendril. "I'm taking her out hunting on Wednesday," said John. He had forgotten Princess Abdul Akbar in the excitement of the coming meet. "Please God make there be a good scent. Please God make me see the kill. Please God don't let me do anything wrong. God bless Ben and Thunderclap. Please God make me jump an enormous great oxer," he had kept repeating throughout the service. Brenda did the round with Tony of cottages and hothouses; she helped him choose his buttonhole. Tony was in high spirits at luncheon. Brenda had begun to forget how amusing he could be. Afterwards he changed into other clothes and went with Jock to play golf. They stayed some time at the clubhouse. Tony said, "We've got the hounds meeting at Hetton on Wednesday. Couldn't you stay down till then?" "Must be back. There's going to be a debate on the Pig Scheme." "I wish you'd stay. Look here, why don't you ask that girl down? Everyone goes to-morrow. You could ring her up, couldn't you?" "I _could_." "Would she hate it? She could have Lyonesse--Polly slept there two week-ends running, so it can't be too uncomfortable." "She'd probably love it. I'll ring up and ask her." "Why don't you hunt too? There's a chap called Brinkwell who's got some quite decent hirelings, I believe." "Yes, I might." * * * * * "Jock's staying on. He's having the Shameless Blonde down. You don't mind?" "Me? Of course not." "This _has_ been a jolly week-end." "I thought you were enjoying it." "Just like old times--before the economics began." * * * * * Marjorie said to Jock, "D'you think Tony knows about Mr Beaver?" "Not | A Handful Of Dust |
Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said: | No speaker | see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be | palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; | respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for | equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished." By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened. When the porters, who had always been | tasteful workmanship, with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, that they shall exceed anything of the kind ever seen in the world. I would have an inner and outer court in front of the palace, and a spacious garden; but above all things, take care that there be laid in a place which you shall point out to me, a treasure of gold and silver coin. Besides, the edifice must be well provided with kitchens and offices, storehouses, and rooms to keep choice furniture in, for every season of the year. I must have stables full of the finest horses, with their equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished." By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened. When the porters, who had always been used to an open prospect, came to open the gates, they were amazed to find it obstructed, and to see a carpet of velvet spread from the grand entrance. They did not immediately look how far it extended, but when they could discern Aladdin's palace distinctly, their surprise was increased. The news of so extraordinary a wonder was presently spread through the palace. The grand vizier, who arrived soon after the gates were open, being no less amazed than others at this novelty, ran and acquainted the sultan, but endeavoured to make him believe it to be all enchantment. "Vizier," | his own chamber, took the lamp, and called the genie as before, who in the usual manner made him a tender of his service. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I have every reason to commend your exactness in executing hitherto punctually whatever I have demanded; but now, if you have any regard for the lamp, your protector, you must shew, if possible, more zeal and diligence than ever. I would have you build me, as soon as you can, a palace opposite, but at a proper distance from, the sultan's, fit to receive my spouse, the Princess Badroulboudour. I leave the choice of the materials to you, that is to say, porphyry, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, or the finest marble of various colours, and also the architecture of the building. But I expect that on the terraced roof of this palace you will build me a large hall crowned with a dome, and having four equal fronts; and that instead of layers of bricks, the walls be formed of massy gold and silver, laid alternately: that each front shall contain six windows, the lattices of all of which (except one, which must be left unfinished) shall be so enriched in the most tasteful workmanship, with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, that they shall exceed anything of the kind ever seen in the world. I would have an inner and outer court in front of the palace, and a spacious garden; but above all things, take care that there be laid in a place which you shall point out to me, a treasure of gold and silver coin. Besides, the edifice must be well provided with kitchens and offices, storehouses, and rooms to keep choice furniture in, for every season of the year. I must have stables full of the finest horses, with their equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished." By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened. When the porters, who had always been used to an open prospect, came to open the gates, they were amazed to find it obstructed, and to see a carpet of velvet spread from the grand entrance. They did not immediately look how far it extended, but when they could discern Aladdin's palace distinctly, their surprise was increased. The news of so extraordinary a wonder was presently spread through the palace. The grand vizier, who arrived soon after the gates were open, being no less amazed than others at this novelty, ran and acquainted the sultan, but endeavoured to make him believe it to be all enchantment. "Vizier," replied the sultan, "why will you have it to be enchantment? You know as well as I that it must be Aladdin's palace, which I gave him leave to build, for the reception of my daughter. After the proof we have had of his riches, can we think it strange that he should raise a palace in so short a time? He wished to surprise us, and let us see what wonders are to be done with money in only one night. Confess sincerely that the enchantment you talk of proceeds from a little envy on account of your son's disappointment." When Aladdin had been conveyed home, and had dismissed the genie, he found his mother up, and dressing herself in one of those suits which had been brought her. By the time the sultan rose from the council, Aladdin had prepared his mother to go to the palace with her slaves, and desired her, if she saw the sultan, to tell him she should do herself the honour toward evening to attend the princess to her palace. Accordingly she went; but though she and the women slaves who followed her were all dressed like sultanesses, yet the crowd was | would wrong me to doubt for a moment of my sincerity: your life from this moment is too dear to me not to preserve it, by presenting you with the remedy which is at my disposal." After these words, the sultan gave a signal, and immediately the air echoed with the sound of trumpets, hautboys, and other musical instruments: and at the same time he led Aladdin into a magnificent hall, where was laid out a most splendid collation. The sultan and Aladdin ate by themselves, while the grand vizier and the great lords of the court, according to their dignity and rank, sat at different tables. The conversation turned on different subjects; but all the while the sultan took so much pleasure in looking at his intended son-in-law, that he hardly ever took his eyes off him; and throughout the whole of their conversation Aladdin shewed so much good sense, as confirmed the sultan in the high opinion he had formed of him. After the feast, the sultan sent for the chief judge of his capital, and ordered him to draw up immediately a contract of marriage between the Princess Badroulboudour, his daughter, and Aladdin. When the judge had drawn up the contract in all the requisite forms, the sultan asked Aladdin if he would stay in the palace, and solemnise the ceremonies of marriage that day; to which he answered: "Sir, though great is my impatience to enjoy your majesty's goodness, yet I beg of you to give me leave to defer it till I have built a palace fit to receive the princess; therefore I petition you to grant me a convenient spot of ground near your abode, that I may the more frequently pay my respects, and I will take care to have it finished with all diligence." "Son," said the sultan, "take what ground you think proper, there is space enough on every quarter round my palace; but consider, I cannot see you too soon united with my daughter, which alone is wanting to complete my happiness." After these words he embraced Aladdin again, who took his leave with as much politeness as if he had been bred up and had always lived at court. Aladdin returned home in the order he had come, amidst the acclamations of the people, who wished him all happiness and prosperity. As soon as he dismounted, he retired to his own chamber, took the lamp, and called the genie as before, who in the usual manner made him a tender of his service. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I have every reason to commend your exactness in executing hitherto punctually whatever I have demanded; but now, if you have any regard for the lamp, your protector, you must shew, if possible, more zeal and diligence than ever. I would have you build me, as soon as you can, a palace opposite, but at a proper distance from, the sultan's, fit to receive my spouse, the Princess Badroulboudour. I leave the choice of the materials to you, that is to say, porphyry, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, or the finest marble of various colours, and also the architecture of the building. But I expect that on the terraced roof of this palace you will build me a large hall crowned with a dome, and having four equal fronts; and that instead of layers of bricks, the walls be formed of massy gold and silver, laid alternately: that each front shall contain six windows, the lattices of all of which (except one, which must be left unfinished) shall be so enriched in the most tasteful workmanship, with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, that they shall exceed anything of the kind ever seen in the world. I would have an inner and outer court in front of the palace, and a spacious garden; but above all things, take care that there be laid in a place which you shall point out to me, a treasure of gold and silver coin. Besides, the edifice must be well provided with kitchens and offices, storehouses, and rooms to keep choice furniture in, for every season of the year. I must have stables full of the finest horses, with their equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished." By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened. When the porters, who had always been used to an open prospect, came to open the gates, they were amazed to find it obstructed, and to see a carpet of velvet spread from the grand entrance. They did not immediately look how far it extended, but when they could discern Aladdin's palace distinctly, their surprise was increased. The news of so extraordinary a wonder was presently spread through the palace. The grand vizier, who arrived soon after the gates were open, being no less amazed than others at this novelty, ran and acquainted the sultan, but endeavoured to make him believe it to be all enchantment. "Vizier," replied the sultan, "why will you have it to be enchantment? You know as well as I that it must be Aladdin's palace, which I gave him leave to build, for the reception of my daughter. After the proof we have had of his riches, can we think it strange that he should raise a palace in so short a time? He wished to surprise us, and let us see what wonders are to be done with money in only one night. Confess sincerely that the enchantment you talk of proceeds from a little envy on account of your son's disappointment." When Aladdin had been conveyed home, and had dismissed the genie, he found his mother up, and dressing herself in one of those suits which had been brought her. By the time the sultan rose from the council, Aladdin had prepared his mother to go to the palace with her slaves, and desired her, if she saw the sultan, to tell him she should do herself the honour toward evening to attend the princess to her palace. Accordingly she went; but though she and the women slaves who followed her were all dressed like sultanesses, yet the crowd was not near so great as the preceding day, because they were all veiled, and each had on an upper garment agreeable to the richness and magnificence of their habits. Aladdin, taking care not to forget his wonderful lamp, mounted his horse, left his paternal home forever, and went to the palace in the same pomp as the day before. As soon as the porters of the sultan's palace saw Aladdin's mother, they went and informed the sultan, who immediately ordered the bands of trumpets, cymbals, drums, fifes, and hautboys, placed in different parts of the palace, to play, so that the air resounded with concerts which inspired the whole city with joy: the merchants began to adorn their shops and houses with fine carpets and silks, and to prepare illuminations against night. The artisans of every description left their work, and the populace repaired to the great space between the royal palace and that of Aladdin; which last drew all their attention, not only because it was new to them, but because there was no comparison between the two buildings. But their amazement was to comprehend by what unheard-of miracle so magnificent a palace could have been so soon erected, it being apparent to all that there were no prepared materials, or any foundations laid the day before. Aladdin's mother was received in the palace with honour, and introduced into the Princess Badroulboudour's apartment by the chief of the eunuchs. As soon as the princess saw her, she rose, saluted, and desired her to sit down on a sofa; and while her women finished dressing, and adorning her with the jewels which Aladdin had presented to her, a collation was served up. At the same time the sultan, who wished to be as much with his daughter as possible before he parted with her, came in and paid the old lady great respect. Aladdin's mother had talked to the sultan in public, but he had never seen her with her veil off, as she was then; and though she was somewhat advanced in years, she had the remains of a good face, which showed what she had been in her youth. The sultan, who had always seen her dressed very meanly, not to say poorly, was surprised to find her as richly and magnificently attired as the princess, his daughter. This made him think Aladdin equally prudent and wise in | daughter, which alone is wanting to complete my happiness." After these words he embraced Aladdin again, who took his leave with as much politeness as if he had been bred up and had always lived at court. Aladdin returned home in the order he had come, amidst the acclamations of the people, who wished him all happiness and prosperity. As soon as he dismounted, he retired to his own chamber, took the lamp, and called the genie as before, who in the usual manner made him a tender of his service. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I have every reason to commend your exactness in executing hitherto punctually whatever I have demanded; but now, if you have any regard for the lamp, your protector, you must shew, if possible, more zeal and diligence than ever. I would have you build me, as soon as you can, a palace opposite, but at a proper distance from, the sultan's, fit to receive my spouse, the Princess Badroulboudour. I leave the choice of the materials to you, that is to say, porphyry, jasper, agate, lapis lazuli, or the finest marble of various colours, and also the architecture of the building. But I expect that on the terraced roof of this palace you will build me a large hall crowned with a dome, and having four equal fronts; and that instead of layers of bricks, the walls be formed of massy gold and silver, laid alternately: that each front shall contain six windows, the lattices of all of which (except one, which must be left unfinished) shall be so enriched in the most tasteful workmanship, with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, that they shall exceed anything of the kind ever seen in the world. I would have an inner and outer court in front of the palace, and a spacious garden; but above all things, take care that there be laid in a place which you shall point out to me, a treasure of gold and silver coin. Besides, the edifice must be well provided with kitchens and offices, storehouses, and rooms to keep choice furniture in, for every season of the year. I must have stables full of the finest horses, with their equerries and grooms, and hunting equipage. There must be officers to attend the kitchens and offices, and women slaves to wait on the princess. You understand what I mean; therefore go about it, and come and tell me when all is finished." By the time Aladdin had instructed the genie respecting the building of his palace, the sun was set. The next morning, before break of day, our bridegroom, whose love for the princess would not let him sleep, was up, when the genie presented himself and said: "Sir, your palace is finished; come and see how you like it."<|quote|>Aladdin had no sooner signified his consent, than the genie transported him thither in an instant, and he found it so much beyond his expectation, that he could not enough admire it. The genie led him through all the apartments, where he met with nothing but what was rich and magnificent, with officers and slaves all habited according to their rank and the services to which they were appointed. The genie then shewed him the treasury, which was opened by a treasurer, where Aladdin saw heaps of purses, of different sizes, piled up to the top of the ceiling, and disposed in most excellent order. The genie assured him of the treasurer's fidelity, and thence led him to the stables, where he shewed him some of the finest horses in the world, and the grooms busy in dressing them; from thence they went to the storehouses, which were filled with all things necessary, both for food and ornament. When Aladdin had examined the palace from top to bottom, and particularly the hall with the four and twenty windows, and found it much beyond whatever he could have imagined, he said:</|quote|>"Genie, no one can be better satisfied than I am; and indeed I should be much to blame if I found any fault. There is only one thing wanting which I forgot to mention; that is, to lay from the sultan's palace to the door of the apartment designed for the princess, a carpet of fine velvet for her to walk upon." The genie immediately disappeared, and Aladdin saw what he desired executed in an instant. The genie then returned, and carried him home before the gates of the sultan's palace were opened. When the porters, who had always been used to an open prospect, came to open the gates, they were amazed to find it obstructed, and to see a carpet of velvet spread from the grand entrance. They did not immediately look how far it extended, but when they could discern Aladdin's palace distinctly, their surprise was increased. The news of so extraordinary a wonder was presently spread through the palace. The grand vizier, who arrived soon after the gates were open, being no less amazed than others at this novelty, ran and acquainted the sultan, but endeavoured to make him believe it to be all enchantment. "Vizier," replied the sultan, "why will you have it to be enchantment? You know as well as I that it must be Aladdin's palace, which I gave him leave to build, for the reception of my daughter. After the proof we have had of his riches, can we think it strange that he should raise a palace in so short a time? He wished to surprise us, and let us see what wonders are to be done with money in only one night. Confess sincerely that the enchantment you talk of proceeds from a little envy on account of your son's disappointment." When Aladdin had been conveyed home, and had dismissed the genie, he found his mother up, and dressing herself in one of those suits which had been brought her. By the time the sultan rose from the council, Aladdin had prepared his mother to go to the palace with her slaves, and desired her, if she saw the sultan, to tell him she should do herself the honour toward evening to attend the princess to her palace. Accordingly she went; but though she and the women slaves who followed her were all dressed like sultanesses, yet the crowd was not near so great as the preceding day, because they were all veiled, and each had on an upper garment agreeable to the richness and magnificence of their habits. Aladdin, taking care not to forget his wonderful lamp, mounted his horse, left his paternal home forever, and went to the palace in the same pomp as the day before. As soon as the porters of the sultan's palace saw Aladdin's mother, they went and informed the sultan, who immediately ordered the bands of trumpets, | Arabian Nights (4) |
"I'd forgotten that," | Mr. Hastings | join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was | Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long | time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed | the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. | across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it | know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," | that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage. This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly. Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance. "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?" "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment." "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_," he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say. "The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was | have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."<|quote|>"I'd forgotten that,"</|quote|>I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"And I have not forgotten," | Emma | till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you | true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have | formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he | great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady | been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with | had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, | could not hope to be listened to again.--I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.--I felt that it would be of a different sort.--Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?--No; do not pity me till I reached Highbury, and saw how ill I had made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan, sick looks.--I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone.--I was not disappointed; and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment's uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shewn me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.--If you think me in a way to be happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.--Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.--In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself," "Your obliged and affectionate Son, F. C. WESTON CHURCHILL." CHAPTER XV This letter must make its way to Emma's feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mrs. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed--and he had suffered, and was very sorry--and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever. She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightley came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston's wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightley, had seen so much to blame in his conduct. "I shall be very glad to look it over," said he; "but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night." But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him. "I would rather be talking to you," he replied; "but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did know that she would have prevented the instrument's coming if she could." After this, he made some progress without any pause. Frank Churchill's confession of having behaved shamefully was the first thing to call for more than a word in passing. "I perfectly agree with you, sir," "--was then his remark. "You did behave very shamefully. You never wrote a truer line." And having gone through what immediately followed of the basis of their disagreement, and his persisting to act in direct opposition to Jane Fairfax's sense of right, he made a fuller pause to say, "This is very bad.--He had induced her to place herself, for his sake, in a situation of extreme difficulty and uneasiness, and it should have been his first object to prevent her from suffering unnecessarily.--She must have had much more to contend with, in carrying on the correspondence, than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples, had there been such; but hers were all reasonable. We must look to her one fault, and remember that she had done a wrong thing in consenting to the engagement, to bear that she should have been in such a state of punishment." Emma knew that he was now getting to the Box Hill party, and grew uncomfortable. Her own behaviour had been so very improper! She was deeply ashamed, and a little afraid of his next look. It was all read, however, steadily, attentively, and without the smallest remark; and, excepting one momentary glance at her, instantly withdrawn, in the fear of giving pain--no remembrance of Box Hill seemed to exist. "There is no saying much for the delicacy of our good friends, the Eltons," was his next observation.--" "His feelings are natural.--What! actually resolve to break with him entirely!--She felt the engagement to be a source of repentance and misery to each--she dissolved it.--What a view this gives of her sense of his behaviour!--Well, he must be a most extraordinary--" "Nay, nay, read on.--You will find how very much he suffers." "I hope he does," replied Mr. Knightley coolly, and resuming the letter. "'Smallridge!'--What does this mean? What is all this?" "She had engaged to go as governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children--a dear friend of Mrs. Elton's--a neighbour of Maple Grove; and, by the bye, I wonder how Mrs. Elton bears the disappointment?" "Say nothing, my dear Emma, while you oblige me to read--not even of Mrs. Elton. Only one page more. I shall soon have done. What a letter the man writes!" "I wish you would read it with a kinder spirit towards him." "Well, there _is_ feeling here.--He does seem to have suffered in finding her ill.--Certainly, I can have no doubt of his being fond of her." 'Dearer, much dearer than ever.' "I hope he may long continue to feel all the value of such a reconciliation.--He is a very liberal thanker, with his thousands and tens of thousands.--" 'Happier than I deserve.' "Come, he knows himself there." 'Miss Woodhouse calls me the child of good fortune.' "--Those were Miss | of justice, it shall be done." He began--stopping, however, almost directly to say, "Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference." He proceeded a little farther, reading to himself; and then, with a smile, observed, "Humph! a fine complimentary opening: But it is his way. One man's style must not be the rule of another's. We will not be severe." "It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my opinion aloud as I read. By doing it, I shall feel that I am near you. It will not be so great a loss of time: but if you dislike it--" "Not at all. I should wish it." Mr. Knightley returned to his reading with greater alacrity. "He trifles here," said he, "as to the temptation. He knows he is wrong, and has nothing rational to urge.--Bad.--He ought not to have formed the engagement.--" 'His father's disposition:' "--he is unjust, however, to his father. Mr. Weston's sanguine temper was a blessing on all his upright and honourable exertions; but Mr. Weston earned every present comfort before he endeavoured to gain it.--Very true; he did not come till Miss Fairfax was here."<|quote|>"And I have not forgotten,"</|quote|>said Emma, "how sure you were that he might have come sooner if he would. You pass it over very handsomely--but you were perfectly right." "I was not quite impartial in my judgment, Emma:--but yet, I think--had _you_ not been in the case--I should still have distrusted him." When he came to Miss Woodhouse, he was obliged to read the whole of it aloud--all that related to her, with a smile; a look; a shake of the head; a word or two of assent, or disapprobation; or merely of love, as the subject required; concluding, however, seriously, and, after steady reflection, thus-- "Very bad--though it might have been worse.--Playing a most dangerous game. Too much indebted to the event for his acquittal.--No judge of his own manners by you.--Always deceived in fact by his own wishes, and regardless of little besides his own convenience.--Fancying you to have fathomed his secret. Natural enough!--his own mind full of intrigue, that he should suspect it in others.--Mystery; Finesse--how they pervert the understanding! My Emma, does not every thing serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?" Emma agreed to it, and with a blush of sensibility on Harriet's account, which she could not give any sincere explanation of. "You had better go on," said she. He did so, but very soon stopt again to say, "the pianoforte! Ah! That was the act of a very, very young man, one too young to consider whether the inconvenience of it might not very much exceed the pleasure. A boyish scheme, indeed!--I cannot comprehend a man's wishing to give a woman any proof of affection which he knows she would rather dispense with; and he did | Emma |
"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" | Sir Thomas | never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, | long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat | friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. | for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and | refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow." After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great | worn out with civility," said he. "I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son. The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow." After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were | to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?" Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed. "Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you by the way." Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son. The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow." After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed. Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful. In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing her persuadableness. CHAPTER XXIX The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal. After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him. Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight. It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place | they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of hours." "Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me." "Oh! William."<|quote|>"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"</|quote|>"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning." "You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission. "Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time and his own very different to-morrow." After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It | Mansfield Park |
"Andryusha! Whom?" | Tanya Pesotsky | stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in | asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He | Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, | Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.'" "But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste." Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way.... You are mentally ill, Andryusha...." Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced | to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed." "But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.'" "But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste." Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way.... You are mentally ill, Andryusha...." Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing. "It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I really am not quite well ... it's time to admit that." "I have noticed it for a long time ... and father has noticed it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to yourself, smile somehow strangely ... and can't sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be frightened, Andryusha; for God's sake don't be frightened...." She began dressing, | just been reading, there is a description of a young _savant_, who does silly things and pines away through worrying about fame. I can't understand such anxiety." "Because you are wise. Your attitude towards fame is one of indifference, as towards a toy which no longer interests you." "Yes, that is true." "Renown does not allure you now. What is there flattering, amusing, or edifying in their carving your name on a tombstone, then time rubbing off the inscription together with the gilding? Moreover, happily there are too many of you for the weak memory of mankind to be able to retain your names." "Of course," assented Kovrin. "Besides, why should they be remembered? But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for instance. What is happiness?" When the clock struck five, he was sitting on the bed, dangling his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk: "In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his happiness --it was so great!--and to propitiate the gods he brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too, like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed." "But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.'" "But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste." Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way.... You are mentally ill, Andryusha...." Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing. "It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I really am not quite well ... it's time to admit that." "I have noticed it for a long time ... and father has noticed it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to yourself, smile somehow strangely ... and can't sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be frightened, Andryusha; for God's sake don't be frightened...." She began dressing, too. Only now, looking at her, Kovrin realised the danger of his position--realised the meaning of the black monk and his conversations with him. It was clear to him now that he was mad. Neither of them knew why they dressed and went into the dining-room: she in front and he following her. There they found Yegor Semyonitch standing in his dressing-gown and with a candle in his hand. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by Tanya's sobs. "Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as though in a fever; "don't be frightened.... Father, it will all pass over ... it will all pass over...." Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I have gone out of my mind" ; but he could only move his lips and smile bitterly. At nine o'clock in the morning they put on his jacket and fur coat, wrapped him up in a shawl, and took him in a carriage to a doctor. VIII Summer had come again, and the doctor advised their going into the country. Kovrin had recovered; he had left off seeing | of God, of eternal truth, of the brilliant future of mankind and so on, gave peculiar and extraordinary significance to his work, and filled his soul with pride and the consciousness of his own exalted consequence. Once or twice a week, in the park or in the house, he met the black monk and had long conversations with him, but this did not alarm him, but, on the contrary, delighted him, as he was now firmly persuaded that such apparitions only visited the elect few who rise up above their fellows and devote themselves to the service of the idea. One day the monk appeared at dinner-time and sat in the dining-room window. Kovrin was delighted, and very adroitly began a conversation with Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya of what might be of interest to the monk; the black-robed visitor listened and nodded his head graciously, and Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya listened, too, and smiled gaily without suspecting that Kovrin was not talking to them but to his hallucination. Imperceptibly the fast of the Assumption was approaching, and soon after came the wedding, which, at Yegor Semyonitch's urgent desire, was celebrated with "a flourish" --that is, with senseless festivities that lasted for two whole days and nights. Three thousand roubles' worth of food and drink was consumed, but the music of the wretched hired band, the noisy toasts, the scurrying to and fro of the footmen, the uproar and crowding, prevented them from appreciating the taste of the expensive wines and wonderful delicacies ordered from Moscow. VII One long winter night Kovrin was lying in bed, reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in the evenings from living in town, to which she was not accustomed, had been asleep a long while, and, from time to time, articulated some incoherent phrase in her restless dreams. It struck three o'clock. Kovrin put out the light and lay down to sleep, lay for a long time with his eyes closed, but could not get to sleep because, as he fancied, the room was very hot and Tanya talked in her sleep. At half-past four he lighted the candle again, and this time he saw the black monk sitting in an arm-chair near the bed. "Good-morning," said the monk, and after a brief pause he asked: "What are you thinking of now?" "Of fame," answered Kovrin. "In the French novel I have just been reading, there is a description of a young _savant_, who does silly things and pines away through worrying about fame. I can't understand such anxiety." "Because you are wise. Your attitude towards fame is one of indifference, as towards a toy which no longer interests you." "Yes, that is true." "Renown does not allure you now. What is there flattering, amusing, or edifying in their carving your name on a tombstone, then time rubbing off the inscription together with the gilding? Moreover, happily there are too many of you for the weak memory of mankind to be able to retain your names." "Of course," assented Kovrin. "Besides, why should they be remembered? But let us talk of something else. Of happiness, for instance. What is happiness?" When the clock struck five, he was sitting on the bed, dangling his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk: "In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his happiness --it was so great!--and to propitiate the gods he brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too, like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed." "But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.'" "But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste." Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way.... You are mentally ill, Andryusha...." Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing. "It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I really am not quite well ... it's time to admit that." "I have noticed it for a long time ... and father has noticed it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to yourself, smile somehow strangely ... and can't sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be frightened, Andryusha; for God's sake don't be frightened...." She began dressing, too. Only now, looking at her, Kovrin realised the danger of his position--realised the meaning of the black monk and his conversations with him. It was clear to him now that he was mad. Neither of them knew why they dressed and went into the dining-room: she in front and he following her. There they found Yegor Semyonitch standing in his dressing-gown and with a candle in his hand. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by Tanya's sobs. "Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as though in a fever; "don't be frightened.... Father, it will all pass over ... it will all pass over...." Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I have gone out of my mind" ; but he could only move his lips and smile bitterly. At nine o'clock in the morning they put on his jacket and fur coat, wrapped him up in a shawl, and took him in a carriage to a doctor. VIII Summer had come again, and the doctor advised their going into the country. Kovrin had recovered; he had left off seeing the black monk, and he had only to get up his strength. Staying at his father-in-law's, he drank a great deal of milk, worked for only two hours out of the twenty-four, and neither smoked nor drank wine. On the evening before Elijah's Day they had an evening service in the house. When the deacon was handing the priest the censer the immense old room smelt like a graveyard, and Kovrin felt bored. He went out into the garden. Without noticing the gorgeous flowers, he walked about the garden, sat down on a seat, then strolled about the park; reaching the river, he went down and then stood lost in thought, looking at the water. The sullen pines with their shaggy roots, which had seen him a year before so young, so joyful and confident, were not whispering now, but standing mute and motionless, as though they did not recognise him. And, indeed, his head was closely cropped, his beautiful long hair was gone, his step was lagging, his face was fuller and paler than last summer. He crossed by the footbridge to the other side. Where the year before there had been rye the oats stood, reaped, and lay in rows. The sun had set and there was a broad stretch of glowing red on the horizon, a sign of windy weather next day. It was still. Looking in the direction from which the year before the black monk had first appeared, Kovrin stood for twenty minutes, till the evening glow had begun to fade.... When, listless and dissatisfied, he returned home the service was over. Yegor Semyonitch and Tanya were sitting on the steps of the verandah, drinking tea. They were talking of something, but, seeing Kovrin, ceased at once, and he concluded from their faces that their talk had been about him. "I believe it is time for you to have your milk," Tanya said to her husband. "No, it is not time yet ..." he said, sitting down on the bottom step. "Drink it yourself; I don't want it." Tanya exchanged a troubled glance with her father, and said in a guilty voice: "You notice yourself that milk does you good." "Yes, a great deal of good!" Kovrin laughed. "I congratulate you: I have gained a pound in weight since Friday." He pressed his head tightly in his hands and said miserably: "Why, why have you | dangling his feet to the carpet, talking to the monk: "In ancient times a happy man grew at last frightened of his happiness --it was so great!--and to propitiate the gods he brought as a sacrifice his favourite ring. Do you know, I, too, like Polykrates, begin to be uneasy of my happiness. It seems strange to me that from morning to night I feel nothing but joy; it fills my whole being and smothers all other feelings. I don't know what sadness, grief, or boredom is. Here I am not asleep; I suffer from sleeplessness, but I am not dull. I say it in earnest; I begin to feel perplexed." "But why?" the monk asked in wonder. "Is joy a supernatural feeling? Ought it not to be the normal state of man? The more highly a man is developed on the intellectual and moral side, the more independent he is, the more pleasure life gives him. Socrates, Diogenes, and Marcus Aurelius, were joyful, not sorrowful. And the Apostle tells us: 'Rejoice continually'; 'Rejoice and be glad.'" "But will the gods be suddenly wrathful?" Kovrin jested; and he laughed. "If they take from me comfort and make me go cold and hungry, it won't be very much to my taste." Meanwhile Tanya woke up and looked with amazement and horror at her husband. He was talking, addressing the arm-chair, laughing and gesticulating; his eyes were gleaming, and there was something strange in his laugh. "Andryusha, whom are you talking to?" she asked, clutching the hand he stretched out to the monk.<|quote|>"Andryusha! Whom?"</|quote|>"Oh! Whom?" said Kovrin in confusion. "Why, to him.... He is sitting here," he said, pointing to the black monk. "There is no one here ... no one! Andryusha, you are ill!" Tanya put her arm round her husband and held him tight, as though protecting him from the apparition, and put her hand over his eyes. "You are ill!" she sobbed, trembling all over. "Forgive me, my precious, my dear one, but I have noticed for a long time that your mind is clouded in some way.... You are mentally ill, Andryusha...." Her trembling infected him, too. He glanced once more at the arm-chair, which was now empty, felt a sudden weakness in his arms and legs, was frightened, and began dressing. "It's nothing, Tanya; it's nothing," he muttered, shivering. "I really am not quite well ... it's time to admit that." "I have noticed it for a long time ... and father has noticed it," she said, trying to suppress her sobs. "You talk to yourself, smile somehow strangely ... and can't sleep. Oh, my God, my God, save us!" she said in terror. "But don't be frightened, Andryusha; for God's sake don't be frightened...." She began dressing, too. Only now, looking at her, Kovrin realised the danger of his position--realised the meaning of the black monk and his conversations with him. It was clear to him now that he was mad. Neither of them knew why they dressed and went into the dining-room: she in front and he following her. There they found Yegor Semyonitch standing in his dressing-gown and with a candle in his hand. He was staying with them, and had been awakened by Tanya's sobs. "Don't be frightened, Andryusha," Tanya was saying, shivering as though in a fever; "don't be frightened.... Father, it will all pass over ... it will all pass over...." Kovrin was too much agitated to speak. He wanted to say to his father-in-law in a playful tone: "Congratulate me; it appears I have gone out of my mind" ; but he could only move his lips and smile bitterly. At nine o'clock in the morning they put on his jacket and fur | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (6) |
After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her. | No speaker | and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what | and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your | kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess | woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is | Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows." "Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us." The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said: "When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you | various things, at last the princess asked her what she thought of the house, and how she liked it. "Madam," answered the devout woman, "I must certainly have very bad taste to disapprove anything in it, since it is beautiful, regular, and magnificently furnished with exactness and judgment, and all its ornaments adjusted in the best manner. Its situation is an agreeable spot, and no garden can be more delightful; but yet, if you will give me leave to speak my mind freely, I will take the liberty to tell you that this house would be incomparable if it had three things which are wanting to complete it." "My good mother," replied the Princess Periezade, "what are those? I entreat you to tell me what they are; I will spare nothing to get them." "Madam," replied the devout woman, "the first of these three things is the Talking Bird, so singular a creature, that it draws round it all the songsters of the neighbourhood which come to accompany its voice. The second is the Singing Tree, the leaves of which are so many mouths which form an harmonious concert of different voices and never cease. The third is the Golden Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows." "Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us." The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said: "When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities | the residence, which civility she accepted, followed them from one apartment to another, and observed, like a person who understood what belonged to furniture, the nice arrangement of everything. They conducted her also into the garden, the disposition of which she found so well planned, that she admired it, observing that the person who had formed it must have been an excellent master of his art. Afterward she was brought before the princess, who waited for her in the great hall, which in beauty and richness exceeded all that she had admired in the other apartments. As soon as the princess saw the devout woman, she said to her: "My good mother, come near and sit down by me. I am overjoyed at the happiness of having the opportunity of profiting for some moments by the example and conversation of such a person as you, who have taken the right way by dedicating yourself to the service of God. I wish every one were as wise." The devout woman, instead of sitting on a sofa, would only sit upon the edge of one. The princess would not permit her to do so, but rising from her seat and taking her by the hand, obliged her to come and sit by her. The good woman, sensible of the civility, said: "Madam, I ought not to have so much respect shown me; but since you command, and are mistress of your own house, I will obey you." When she had seated herself, before they entered into any conversation, one of the princess's women brought a low stand of mother-of-pearl and ebony, with a china dish full of cakes upon it, and many others set round it full of fruits in season, and wet and dry sweetmeats. The princess took up one of the cakes, and presenting her with it, said: "Eat, good mother, and make choice of what you like best; you had need to eat after coming so far." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I am not used to eat such delicacies, but will not refuse what God has sent me by so liberal a hand as yours." While the devout woman was eating, the princess ate a little too, to bear her company, and asked her many questions upon the exercise of devotion which she practised and how she lived; all of which she answered with great modesty. Talking of various things, at last the princess asked her what she thought of the house, and how she liked it. "Madam," answered the devout woman, "I must certainly have very bad taste to disapprove anything in it, since it is beautiful, regular, and magnificently furnished with exactness and judgment, and all its ornaments adjusted in the best manner. Its situation is an agreeable spot, and no garden can be more delightful; but yet, if you will give me leave to speak my mind freely, I will take the liberty to tell you that this house would be incomparable if it had three things which are wanting to complete it." "My good mother," replied the Princess Periezade, "what are those? I entreat you to tell me what they are; I will spare nothing to get them." "Madam," replied the devout woman, "the first of these three things is the Talking Bird, so singular a creature, that it draws round it all the songsters of the neighbourhood which come to accompany its voice. The second is the Singing Tree, the leaves of which are so many mouths which form an harmonious concert of different voices and never cease. The third is the Golden Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows." "Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us." The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said: "When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the way thither. Perhaps you may imagine these things of little consequence; that without these additions our house will always be thought sufficiently elegant, and that we can do without them. You may think as you please, but I cannot help telling you that I am persuaded they are absolutely necessary, and I shall not be easy without them. Therefore, whether you value them or not, I desire you to consider what person you may think proper for me to send in search of the curiosities I have mentioned." "Sister," replied Prince Bahman, "nothing can concern you in which we have not an equal interest. It is enough that you desire these things to oblige us to take the same interest; but if you had not, we feel ourselves inclined of our own accord and for our own individual satisfaction. I am persuaded my brother is of the same opinion, and therefore we ought to undertake this conquest, for the importance and singularity of the undertaking deserve that name. I will take the charge upon myself; only tell me the place and the way to it, and I will defer my journey no longer than till to-morrow." "Brother," said Prince Perviz, "it is not proper that you, who are the head of our family, should be absent. I desire my sister should join with me to oblige you to abandon your design, and allow me to undertake it. I hope to acquit myself as well as you, and it will be a more regular proceeding." "I am persuaded of your goodwill, brother," replied Prince Bahman, "and that you would succeed as well as myself in this journey; but I have resolved and will undertake it. You shall stay at home with our sister, and I need not recommend her to you." The next morning Bahman mounted his horse, and Perviz and the princess embraced and wished him a good journey. But in the midst of their adieus, the princess recollected what she had not thought of before. "Brother," said she, "I had quite forgotten the accidents which attend travellers. Who knows whether I shall ever see you again? Alight, I beseech you, and give up this journey. I would rather be deprived of the sight and possession of the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water, than run the risk of never seeing you more." "Sister," replied Bahman, smiling at her sudden fears, "my resolution is fixed. The accidents you speak of befall only those who are unfortunate; but there are more who are not so. However, as events are uncertain, and I may fail in this undertaking, all I can do is to leave you this knife." Bahman pulling a knife from his vestband, and presenting it to the princess in the sheath, said: "Take this knife, sister, and give yourself the trouble sometimes to pull it out of the sheath; while you | to accompany its voice. The second is the Singing Tree, the leaves of which are so many mouths which form an harmonious concert of different voices and never cease. The third is the Golden Water, a single drop of which being poured into a vessel properly prepared, it increases so as to fill it immediately, and rises up in the middle like a fountain, which continually plays, and yet the basin never overflows." "Ah! my good mother," cried the princess, "how much am I obliged to you for the knowledge of these curiosities! I never before heard there were such rarities in the world; but as I am persuaded that you know, I expect that you should do me the favour to inform me where they are to be found." "Madam," replied the good woman, "I should be unworthy the hospitality you have shown me if I should refuse to satisfy your curiosity on that point, and am glad to have the honour to tell you that these curiosities are all to be met with in the same spot on the confines of this kingdom, toward India. The road lies before your house, and whoever you send needs but follow it for twenty days, and on the twentieth only let him ask the first person he meets where the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water are, and he will be informed."<|quote|>After saying this, she rose from her seat, took her leave, and went her way. The Princess Periezade's thoughts were so taken up with the Talking Bird, Singing Tree, and Golden Water, that she never perceived the devout woman's departure, till she wanted to ask her some question for her better information; for she thought that what she had been told was not a sufficient reason for exposing herself by undertaking a long journey. However, she would not send after her visitor, but endeavoured to remember all the directions, and when she thought she had recollected every word, took real pleasure in thinking of the satisfaction she should have if she could get these curiosities into her possession; but the difficulties she apprehended and the fear of not succeeding made her very uneasy. She was absorbed in these thoughts when her brothers returned from hunting, who, when they entered the great hall, instead of finding her lively and gay, as she was wont to be, were amazed to see her so pensive and hanging down her head as if something troubled her.</|quote|>"Sister," said Prince Bahman, "what is become of all your mirth and gaiety? Are you not well? or has some misfortune befallen you? Tell us, that we may know how to act, and give you some relief. If any one has affronted you, we will resent his insolence." The princess remained in the same posture some time without answering, but at last lifted up her eyes to look at her brothers, and then held them down again, telling them nothing disturbed her. "Sister," said Prince Bahman, "you conceal the truth from us; there must be something of consequence. It is impossible we could observe so sudden a change if nothing was the matter with you. You would not have us satisfied with the evasive answer you have given; do not conceal anything, unless you would have us suspect that you renounce the strict union which has hitherto subsisted between us." The princess, who had not the smallest intention to offend her brothers, would not suffer them to entertain such a thought, but said: "When I told you nothing disturbed me, I meant nothing that was of importance to you, but to me it is of some consequence; and since you press me to tell you by our strict union and friendship, which are so dear to me, I will. You think, and I always believed so too, that this house was so complete that nothing was wanting. But this day I have learned that it lacks three rarities which would render it so perfect that no country seat in the world could be compared with it. These three things are the Talking Bird, the Singing Tree, and the Golden Water." After she had informed them wherein consisted the excellency of these rarities, "A devout woman," added she, "has made this discovery to me, told me the place where they are to be found, and the | Arabian Nights (1) |
"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?" | Colonel Adye | Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, | him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, | go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry | along tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He s got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away." "Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!" "And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated. "Yes?" said Adye. "Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It s cruel, I know. But think of | The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen." "What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war get Hopps to help and the railway managers. By Jove! it s urgent. Come along tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He s got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away." "Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!" "And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated. "Yes?" said Adye. "Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It s cruel, I know. But think of what he may do!" Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. "It s unsportsmanlike. I don t know. But I ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too far...." "The man s become inhuman, I tell you," said Kemp. "I am as sure he will establish a reign of terror so soon as he has got over the emotions of this escape as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood be upon his own head." CHAPTER XXVI. THE | create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now furious!" "He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain." "But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must begin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station Marvel." "I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books yes. But the tramp...." "Says he hasn t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen." "What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war get Hopps to help and the railway managers. By Jove! it s urgent. Come along tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He s got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away." "Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!" "And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated. "Yes?" said Adye. "Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It s cruel, I know. But think of what he may do!" Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. "It s unsportsmanlike. I don t know. But I ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too far...." "The man s become inhuman, I tell you," said Kemp. "I am as sure he will establish a reign of terror so soon as he has got over the emotions of this escape as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood be upon his own head." CHAPTER XXVI. THE WICKSTEED MURDER The Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp s house in a state of blind fury. A little child playing near Kemp s gateway was violently caught up and thrown aside, so that its ankle was broken, and thereafter for some hours the Invisible Man passed out of human perceptions. No one knows where he went nor what he did. But one can imagine him hurrying through the hot June forenoon, up the hill and on to the open downland behind Port Burdock, raging and despairing at his intolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the thickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes against his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for there it was he re-asserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about two in the afternoon. One wonders what his state of mind may have been during that time, and what plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated by Kemp s treachery, and though we may be able to understand the motives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine and even sympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise | one little thing. The key had been slipped in hastily that morning. As Kemp slammed the door it fell noisily upon the carpet. Kemp s face became white. He tried to grip the door handle with both hands. For a moment he stood lugging. Then the door gave six inches. But he got it closed again. The second time it was jerked a foot wide, and the dressing-gown came wedging itself into the opening. His throat was gripped by invisible fingers, and he left his hold on the handle to defend himself. He was forced back, tripped and pitched heavily into the corner of the landing. The empty dressing-gown was flung on the top of him. Halfway up the staircase was Colonel Adye, the recipient of Kemp s letter, the chief of the Burdock police. He was staring aghast at the sudden appearance of Kemp, followed by the extraordinary sight of clothing tossing empty in the air. He saw Kemp felled, and struggling to his feet. He saw him rush forward, and go down again, felled like an ox. Then suddenly he was struck violently. By nothing! A vast weight, it seemed, leapt upon him, and he was hurled headlong down the staircase, with a grip on his throat and a knee in his groin. An invisible foot trod on his back, a ghostly patter passed downstairs, he heard the two police officers in the hall shout and run, and the front door of the house slammed violently. He rolled over and sat up staring. He saw, staggering down the staircase, Kemp, dusty and disheveled, one side of his face white from a blow, his lip bleeding, and a pink dressing-gown and some underclothing held in his arms. "My God!" cried Kemp, "the game s up! He s gone!" CHAPTER XXV. THE HUNTING OF THE INVISIBLE MAN For a space Kemp was too inarticulate to make Adye understand the swift things that had just happened. They stood on the landing, Kemp speaking swiftly, the grotesque swathings of Griffin still on his arm. But presently Adye began to grasp something of the situation. "He is mad," said Kemp; "inhuman. He is pure selfishness. He thinks of nothing but his own advantage, his own safety. I have listened to such a story this morning of brutal self-seeking.... He has wounded men. He will kill them unless we can prevent him. He will create a panic. Nothing can stop him. He is going out now furious!" "He must be caught," said Adye. "That is certain." "But how?" cried Kemp, and suddenly became full of ideas. "You must begin at once. You must set every available man to work; you must prevent his leaving this district. Once he gets away, he may go through the countryside as he wills, killing and maiming. He dreams of a reign of terror! A reign of terror, I tell you. You must set a watch on trains and roads and shipping. The garrison must help. You must wire for help. The only thing that may keep him here is the thought of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station Marvel." "I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books yes. But the tramp...." "Says he hasn t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen." "What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war get Hopps to help and the railway managers. By Jove! it s urgent. Come along tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He s got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away." "Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!" "And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated. "Yes?" said Adye. "Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It s cruel, I know. But think of what he may do!" Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. "It s unsportsmanlike. I don t know. But I ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too far...." "The man s become inhuman, I tell you," said Kemp. "I am as sure he will establish a reign of terror so soon as he has got over the emotions of this escape as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood be upon his own head." CHAPTER XXVI. THE WICKSTEED MURDER The Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp s house in a state of blind fury. A little child playing near Kemp s gateway was violently caught up and thrown aside, so that its ankle was broken, and thereafter for some hours the Invisible Man passed out of human perceptions. No one knows where he went nor what he did. But one can imagine him hurrying through the hot June forenoon, up the hill and on to the open downland behind Port Burdock, raging and despairing at his intolerable fate, and sheltering at last, heated and weary, amid the thickets of Hintondean, to piece together again his shattered schemes against his species. That seems the most probable refuge for him, for there it was he re-asserted himself in a grimly tragical manner about two in the afternoon. One wonders what his state of mind may have been during that time, and what plans he devised. No doubt he was almost ecstatically exasperated by Kemp s treachery, and though we may be able to understand the motives that led to that deceit, we may still imagine and even sympathise a little with the fury the attempted surprise must have occasioned. Perhaps something of the stunned astonishment of his Oxford Street experiences may have returned to him, for he had evidently counted on Kemp s co-operation in his brutal dream of a terrorised world. At any rate he vanished from human ken about midday, and no living witness can tell what he did until about half-past two. It was a fortunate thing, perhaps, for humanity, but for him it was a fatal inaction. During that time a growing multitude of men scattered over the countryside were busy. In the morning he had still been simply a legend, a terror; in the afternoon, by virtue chiefly of Kemp s drily worded proclamation, he was presented as a tangible antagonist, to be wounded, captured, or overcome, and the countryside began organising itself with inconceivable rapidity. By two o clock even he might still have removed himself out of the district by getting aboard a train, but after two that became impossible. Every passenger train along the lines on a great parallelogram between Southampton, Manchester, Brighton and Horsham, travelled with locked doors, and the goods traffic was almost entirely suspended. And in a great circle of twenty miles round Port Burdock, men armed with guns and bludgeons were presently setting out in groups of three and four, with dogs, to beat the roads and fields. Mounted policemen rode along the country lanes, stopping at every cottage and warning the people to lock up their houses, and keep indoors unless they were armed, and all the elementary schools had broken up by three o clock, and the children, scared and keeping together in groups, were hurrying home. Kemp s proclamation signed indeed by Adye was posted over almost the whole district by four or five o clock in the afternoon. It gave briefly but clearly all the conditions of the struggle, the necessity of keeping the Invisible Man from food and sleep, the necessity for incessant watchfulness and for a prompt attention to any evidence of his movements. And so swift and decided was the action of the authorities, so prompt and universal was the belief in this strange being, that before nightfall an area of several hundred square miles was in a stringent state of siege. And before nightfall, too, a thrill of horror went through the whole watching nervous countryside. Going from whispering mouth to mouth, swift and certain over | of recovering some books of notes he counts of value. I will tell you of that! There is a man in your police station Marvel." "I know," said Adye, "I know. Those books yes. But the tramp...." "Says he hasn t them. But he thinks the tramp has. And you must prevent him from eating or sleeping; day and night the country must be astir for him. Food must be locked up and secured, all food, so that he will have to break his way to it. The houses everywhere must be barred against him. Heaven send us cold nights and rain! The whole country-side must begin hunting and keep hunting. I tell you, Adye, he is a danger, a disaster; unless he is pinned and secured, it is frightful to think of the things that may happen." "What else can we do?" said Adye. "I must go down at once and begin organising. But why not come? Yes you come too! Come, and we must hold a sort of council of war get Hopps to help and the railway managers. By Jove! it s urgent. Come along tell me as we go. What else is there we can do? Put that stuff down." In another moment Adye was leading the way downstairs. They found the front door open and the policemen standing outside staring at empty air. "He s got away, sir," said one. "We must go to the central station at once," said Adye. "One of you go on down and get a cab to come up and meet us quickly. And now, Kemp, what else?" "Dogs," said Kemp. "Get dogs. They don t see him, but they wind him. Get dogs." "Good," said Adye.<|quote|>"It s not generally known, but the prison officials over at Halstead know a man with bloodhounds. Dogs. What else?"</|quote|>"Bear in mind," said Kemp, "his food shows. After eating, his food shows until it is assimilated. So that he has to hide after eating. You must keep on beating. Every thicket, every quiet corner. And put all weapons all implements that might be weapons, away. He can t carry such things for long. And what he can snatch up and strike men with must be hidden away." "Good again," said Adye. "We shall have him yet!" "And on the roads," said Kemp, and hesitated. "Yes?" said Adye. "Powdered glass," said Kemp. "It s cruel, I know. But think of what he may do!" Adye drew the air in sharply between his teeth. "It s unsportsmanlike. I don t know. But I ll have powdered glass got ready. If he goes too far...." "The man s become inhuman, I tell you," said Kemp. "I am as sure he will establish a reign of terror so soon as he has got over the emotions of this escape as I am sure I am talking to you. Our only chance is to be ahead. He has cut himself off from his kind. His blood be upon his own head." CHAPTER XXVI. THE WICKSTEED MURDER The Invisible Man seems to have rushed out of Kemp s house in a state of blind fury. | The Invisible Man |
"But she had a duplicate key?" | Hercule Poirot | much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was | for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him | kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket | say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the | she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a | this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, | she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair. "Pray be seated, mademoiselle." "Thank you, sir." "You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?" "Ten years, sir." "That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?" "She was a very good mistress to me, sir." "Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval." "Oh, certainly, sir." "Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?" "Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly. "My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice." "Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold." Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked: "Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?" "Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday" "What time was that?" "I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly." You have lied to me, and deceived me,' "she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did but she answered:" How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' "Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:" Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' "Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly." "You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?" "Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?" "Well, what happened next?" "Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea nothing to eat to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful so white and upset." Dorcas,' "she says," I've had a great shock.' I'm sorry for that, m'm,' "I says." You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' "She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!" "The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?" "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." "How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?" "One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders. "Where did you find it?" "In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue." "But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?" "Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?" I examined it closely. "No, I can't say that I do." "Look at the label." I read the label carefully: " One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' "No, I see nothing unusual." "Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?" "Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!" "Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?" "No, I can't say that I have." I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking: "Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend." An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply. Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness. "I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be | hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:" These few words and everything's changed.' "And then she says to me:" Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' "I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it." I don't know what to do,' "she says." Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' "Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more." "She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir." "What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?" "Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers." "Is that where she usually kept important papers?" "Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night." "When did she lose the key of it?" "She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."<|quote|>"But she had a duplicate key?"</|quote|>"Oh, yes, sir." Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. "Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs. Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head. "That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it." "Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?" Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question. "No, sir." "Are you quite sure?" "Oh, yes, sir." "Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?" Dorcas reflected. "Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress." "Light or dark green?" "A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it." "Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?" "No, sir not that I know of." Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked: "Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?" "Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't." "Why do you know so positively?" "Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up." "You are quite sure of that?" "Positive, sir." "Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?" "To sign a paper? No, sir." "When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?" "I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things." Poirot lifted his hand. "Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them." "Very well, sir." "What time did you go out last evening?" "About six o'clock, sir." "Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?" "Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course." | Josef Hamacher | everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon | much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a | the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old | There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has | complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian. On the other hand, just to think of a garrison hospital gives a man the creeps. Franz Wachter does not regain his strength. One day he is taken away and does not come back. Josef Hamacher knows all about it: "We shan't see him again. They have put him in the dead room." "What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp. "Well, Dying Room----" "What is that, then?" "A little room at the corner of the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go | 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 voluntary aid sisters. They are pleasant, but often rather unskilled. They frequently give us pain when re-making our beds, and then are so frightened that they hurt us still more. The nuns are more reliable. They know how they must take hold of us, but we would be more pleased if they were somewhat more cheerful. A few of them have real spirit, they are superb. There is no one who would not do anything for Sister Libertine, this marvellous sister, who spreads good cheer through the whole wing even when she can only be seen in the distance. And there are others like her. We would go through fire for her. A man cannot really complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian. On the other hand, just to think of a garrison hospital gives a man the creeps. Franz Wachter does not regain his strength. One day he is taken away and does not come back. Josef Hamacher knows all about it: "We shan't see him again. They have put him in the dead room." "What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp. "Well, Dying Room----" "What is that, then?" "A little room at the corner of the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right," he tells them, "we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you | 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 voluntary aid sisters. They are pleasant, but often rather unskilled. They frequently give us pain when re-making our beds, and then are so frightened that they hurt us still more. The nuns are more reliable. They know how they must take hold of us, but we would be more pleased if they were somewhat more cheerful. A few of them have real spirit, they are superb. There is no one who would not do anything for Sister Libertine, this marvellous sister, who spreads good cheer through the whole wing even when she can only be seen in the distance. And there are others like her. We would go through fire for her. A man cannot really complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian. On the other hand, just to think of a garrison hospital gives a man the creeps. Franz Wachter does not regain his strength. One day he is taken away and does not come back. Josef Hamacher knows all about it: "We shan't see him again. They have put him in the dead room." "What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp. "Well, Dying Room----" "What is that, then?" "A little room at the corner of the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, so the surgeon's secretary says. Another fellow's have grown crooked; his are broken again. It is disgusting. Among our new arrivals there are two young soldiers with flat feet. The chief surgeon discovers them on his rounds, and is overjoyed. "We'll soon put that right," he tells them, "we will just do a small operation, and then you will have perfectly sound feet. Enter them down, sister." As soon as he is gone, Josef, who knows everything, warns them: "Don't you let him operate on you! That is a special scientific stunt of the old boy's. He goes absolutely crazy whenever he can get hold of anyone to do it on. He operates on you for flat feet, and there's no mistake, you don't have them any more; you have club feet instead, and have to walk all the rest of your life on sticks." "What should a man do, then?" asks one of them. "Say No. You are here to be cured of your wound, not your flat feet. Did you have any trouble with them in the field? No, well, there you are! At present you can still walk, but if once the old boy gets you under the knife you'll be cripples. What he wants is little dogs to experiment with, so the war is a glorious time for him, as it is for all the surgeons. You take a look down below at the staff; there are a dozen fellows hobbling around that he has operated on. A lot of them have been here all the time since 'fourteen and 'fifteen. Not a single one of them can walk better than he could before, almost all of them worse, and most only with plaster legs. Every six months he catches them again and breaks their bones afresh, and every time is going to be the successful one. You take my word, he won't dare to do it if you say No." "Ach, man," says one of the two unfortunates, "better your feet than your brain-box. There's no telling what you'll get if you go back out there again? They can do with me just as they please, so long as I get back home. Better to have a club foot than be dead." The other, a young fellow like ourselves, won't have it done. One morning the old man has the two hauled up and lectures and jaws at them so long, that in the end they consent. What else could they do?--They are mere privates, and he is a big bug. They are brought back chloroformed and plastered. * * It is going badly with Albert. They have taken him and amputated his leg. The whole leg has been taken off from the thigh. Now he hardly speaks any more. Once he says he will shoot himself the first time he can get hold of his | marvellous sister, who spreads good cheer through the whole wing even when she can only be seen in the distance. And there are others like her. We would go through fire for her. A man cannot really complain, here he is treated by the nuns exactly like a civilian. On the other hand, just to think of a garrison hospital gives a man the creeps. Franz Wachter does not regain his strength. One day he is taken away and does not come back. Josef Hamacher knows all about it: "We shan't see him again. They have put him in the dead room." "What do you mean, Dead Room?" asks Kropp. "Well, Dying Room----" "What is that, then?" "A little room at the corner of the building. Whoever is about to kick the bucket is put in there. There are two beds in it. It is generally called the Dying Room." "But what do they do that for?" "They don't have so much work to do afterwards. It is more convenient, too, because it lies right beside the lift to the mortuary. Perhaps also they do it for the sake of the others, so that no one in the ward dies in sympathy. And they can look after him better, too, if he is by himself." "But what about him?" Josef shrugs his shoulders. "Usually he doesn't take much notice any more." "Does everybody know about it then?"<|quote|>"Anyone who has been here long enough knows, of course."</|quote|>* * In the afternoon Franz Wachter's bed has a fresh occupant. A couple of days later they take the new man away, too. Josef makes a significant gesture. We see many come and go. Often relatives sit by the beds and weep or talk softly and awkwardly. One old woman will not go away, but she cannot stay there the whole night through. Another morning she comes very early, but not early enough; for as she goes up to the bed, someone else is in it already. She has to go to the mortuary. The apples that she has brought with her she gives to us. And then little Peter begins to get worse. His temperature chart looks bad, and one day the flat trolley stands beside his bed. "Where to?" he asks. "To the bandaging ward." He is lifted out. But the sister makes the mistake of removing his tunic from the hook and putting it on the trolley too, so that she should not have to make two journeys. Peter understands immediately and tries to roll off the trolley. "I'm stopping here!" They push him back. He cries out feebly with his shattered lung: "I won't go to the Dying Room." "But we are going to the bandaging ward." "Then what do you want my tunic for?" He can speak no more. Hoarse, agitated, he whispers: "Stopping here!" They do not answer but wheel him out. At the door he tries to raise himself up. His black curly head sways, his eyes are full of tears. "I will come back again! I will come back again!" he cries. The door shuts. We are all excited; but we say nothing. At last Josef says: "Many a man has said that. Once a man is in there, he never comes through." * * I am operated on and vomit for two days. My bones will not grow together, | All Quiet on the Western Front |
She controlled herself for the last time. | No speaker | in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back | be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she | said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which | fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never | that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your | yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve | and my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen s interests that we are acting. It is still not too late to save her name." Then Margaret hit out for the first time. "Are we to make her seducer marry her?" she asked. "If possible, yes." "But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such cases." "In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an inch of his life." So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to imperil both of their lives. Henry s obtuseness had saved her as well as himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: "May I ask you my question now?" "Certainly, my dear." "To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--" "Well, possibly she is right." "Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End." It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. "Why Howards End?" he said at last. "Would she not be more comfortable, as I suggested, at the hotel?" Margaret hastened to give him reasons. "It is an odd request, but you know what Helen is and what women in her state are." He frowned, and moved irritably. "She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do her good. I think she s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, A beautiful ending." "She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact." "Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it." "I don t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End." Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now the evening. CHAPTER XXXIX Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles s dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the incidents of the Schlegels campaign: the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother s legacy, his father s marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and the opportunity for his. But he already felt that Howards End | t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever she goes--possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn t you? and I d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a house," he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling point--" "because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold." "Leave it that you don t see," cried Margaret. "Call it fancy. But realise that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to." Then he surprised her--a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. "If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out of the house, perhaps." "Well?" said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. "And suppose we don t get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm." Again the irritated gesture. "No, Henry," she panted, receding. "I didn t mean that. We will only trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow--" "Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?" "She cannot be left alone." "That s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles." "I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I have no desire to meet him." "Margaret--my Margaret." "What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it concerns you less, and Charles not at all." "As the future owner of Howards End," said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, "I should say that it did concern Charles." "In what way? Will Helen s condition depreciate the property?" "My dear, you are forgetting yourself." "I think you yourself recommended plain speaking." They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. "Helen commands my sympathy," said Henry. "As your husband, I shall do all for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be false to my position in society if I did."<|quote|>She controlled herself for the last time.</|quote|>"No, let us go back to Helen s request," she said. "It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house--a house which you do not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one night only. That will be enough." "As I have actually been forgiven--?" "Never mind for the moment what I mean by that," said Margaret. "Answer my question." Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. Straight from his fortress he answered: "I seem rather unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once." "You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox." "I beg your pardon?" "A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?" "You have not been yourself all day," said Henry, and rose from his seat with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was transfigured. "Not any more of this!" she cried. "You shall see the connection if it kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress--I forgave you. My sister has a lover--you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, cruel--oh, contemptible!--a man who insults his wife when she s alive and cants with her memory when she s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not responsible. These men are you. You can t recognise them, because you cannot connect. I ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I ve spoilt you long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. No one has ever told what you are--muddled, criminally muddled. Men like you use repentance as a blind, so don t repent. Only say to yourself, What Helen has done, I ve done." "The two cases are different," Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. "In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You remain in society, Helen can t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?" Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry s retort came. "I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a wife | Howards End |
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy. | No speaker | something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," | rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons | his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks | suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. | hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and | with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking | of preference which was often given me." "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!" After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!" "--She could have added, ""A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"" --but she contented herself with ""And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. CHAPTER XVII. Elizabeth related to Jane the next day, what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern;--she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham.--The possibility of his having really endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing therefore remained to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake, whatever could not be otherwise explained. "They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side." "Very true, indeed;--and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say in behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business?--Do clear _them_ too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody." "Laugh as much as you chuse, but you will not | do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance, and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself." "How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for dishonesty I must call it." "It _is_ wonderful," "--replied Wickham,--" "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride." "Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?" "Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride, which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers." "What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?" He shook his head.--" "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very, very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education." After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying, "I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you know Mr. Bingley?" "Not at all." "He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is." "Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing something for fortune and figure."<|quote|>The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not make herself uneasy.</|quote|>"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters." Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh. "Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long." "You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy." "No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday." "Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates." This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined to another. "Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman." "I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of the first class." Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name | Pride And Prejudice |
"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away." | Don Lavington | part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away | rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" | died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they | opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I | Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, | to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But | only that elbows and hands suffered, and sundry sounds suggested that waistcoat buttons were being torn off. But that was no moment for studying trifles; and what were waistcoat buttons to liberty? Another moment, and his legs were over the edge, and he was about to attempt the most difficult part of the descent, grasping beforehand, that as soon as he hung clear of the eaves, he should begin to turn slowly round. "Now for it," he said; and he was about to descend perpendicularly, when the rope was suddenly jerked violently. There was a loud ejaculation, and Jem's voice rose to where he hung. "No, no, Mas' Don. Back! Back! Don't come down." Then, as he hung, there came the panting and noise of a terrible struggle far below. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. PRISONERS AGAIN. Don's grasp tightened on the rope, and as he lay there, half on, half off the slope, listening, with the beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead, he heard from below shouts, the trampling of feet and struggling. "They've attacked Jem," he thought. "What shall I do? Go to his help?" Before he could come to a decision the noise ceased and all was perfectly still. Don hung there thinking. What should he do--slide down and try to escape, or climb back? Jem was evidently retaken, and to escape would be cowardly, he thought; and in this spirit he began to draw himself slowly back till, after a great deal of exertion, he had contrived to get his legs beyond the eaves, and there he rested, hesitating once more. Just then he heard voices below, and holding on by one hand, he rapidly drew up a few yards of the rope, making his leg take the place of another hand. There was a good deal of talking, and he caught the word "rope," but that was all. So he continued his toilsome ascent till he was able to grasp the edge of the skylight opening, up to which he dragged himself, and sat listening, astride, as he had been before the attempt was made. All was so still that he was tempted to slide down and escape for no sound suggested that any one was on the watch. But Jem! Poor Jem! It was like leaving him in the lurch. Still, he thought, if he did get away, he might give the alarm, and find help to save Jem from being taken away. "And if they came up and found me gone," he muttered, "they would take Jem off aboard ship directly, and it would be labour in vain." "Oh! Let go!" The words escaped him involuntarily, for whilst he was pondering, some one had crept into the great loft floor, made a leap, and caught him by the leg, and, in spite of all his efforts to free himself, the man hung on till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk." Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him. "It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't for my Sally. A man might just as well be pulling ropes as pushing casks and winding cranes." "But we shall have to fight, Jem." "Well, so long as it's fisties I don't know as I much mind, but if they expect me to chop or shoot anybody, they're mistook." Jem became silent, and for a long time his fellow-prisoner felt not the slightest inclination to speak. His thoughts were busy over their attempted escape, and the risky task of descending by the rope. Then he thought again of home, and wondered what they would think of him, feeling sure that they would believe him to have behaved badly. His heart ached as he recalled all the past, and how much his present position was due to his own folly and discontent, while, at the end of every scene he evoked, came the thought that no matter how he repented, it was too late--too late! "How are you now, Jem?" he asked once or twice, as he tried to pierce the utter darkness; but there was no answer, and at last he relieved the weariness of his position by moving close up to the wall, so as to lean his back against it, and in this position, despite all his trouble, his head drooped forward till his chin rested upon his chest, and he fell fast asleep for what seemed to him only a | till, unable to kick free, Don was literally dragged in and fell, after clinging for a moment to the cross-beam, heavily upon the floor. "I've got him!" cried a hoarse voice, which he recognised. "Look sharp with the light." Don was on his back half stunned and hurt, and his captor, the sinister-looking man, was sitting upon his chest, half suffocating him, and evidently taking no little pleasure in inflicting pain. Footsteps were hurriedly ascending; then there was the glow of a lanthorn, and directly after the bluff-looking man appeared, followed by a couple of sailors, one of whom bore the light. "Got him?" "Ay, ay! I've got him, sir." "That's right! But do you want to break the poor boy's ribs? Get off!" Don's friend, the sinister-looking man, rose grumblingly from his captive's chest, and the bluff man laughed. "Pretty well done, my lad," he said. "I might have known you two weren't so quiet for nothing. There, cast off that rope, and bring him down." The sinister man gripped Don's arm savagely, causing him intense pain, but the lad uttered no cry, and suffered himself to be led down in silence to floor after floor, till they were once more in the basement. "Might have broken your neck, you foolish boy," said the bluff man, as a rough door was opened. "You can stop here for a bit. Don't try any more games." He gave Don a friendly push, and the boy stepped forward once more into a dark cellar, where he remained despairing and motionless as the door was banged behind him, and locked; and then, as the steps died away, he heard a groan. "Any one there?" said a faint voice, followed by the muttered words,-- "Poor Mas' Don. What will my Sally do? What will she do?" "Jem, I'm here," said Don huskily; and there was a rustling sound in the far part of the dark place.<|quote|>"Oh! You there, Mas' Don? I thought you'd got away."</|quote|>"How could I get away when they had caught you?" said Don, reproachfully. "Slid down and run. There was no one there to stop you. Why, I says to myself when they pounced on me, if I gives 'em all their work to do, they'll be so busy that they won't see Mas' Don, and he'll be able to get right away. Why didn't you slither and go?" "Because I should have been leaving you in the lurch, Jem; and I didn't want to do that." "Well, I--well, of all--there!--why, Mas' Don, did you feel that way?" "Of course I did." "And you wouldn't get away because I couldn't?" "That's what I thought, Jem." "Well, of all the things I ever heared! Now I wonder whether I should have done like that if you and me had been twisted round; I mean, if you had gone down first and been caught." "Of course you would, Jem." "Well, that's what I don't know, Mas' Don. I'm afraid I should have waited till they'd got off with you, and slipped down and run off." "I don't think you'd have left me, Jem." "I dunno, my lad. I should have said to myself, I can bring them as 'ud help get Mas' Don out; and gone." Don thought of his own feelings, and remained silent. "I say, Mas' Don, though, it's a bad job being caught; but the rope was made strong enough, warn't it?" "Yes, but it was labour in vain." "Well, p'r'aps it was, sir; but I'm proud of that rope all the same. Oh!" Jem uttered a dismal groan. "Are you hurt, Jem?" "Hurt, sir! I just am hurt--horrible. 'Member when I fell down and the tub went over me?" "And broke your ribs, and we thought you were dead? Yes, I remember." "Well, I feel just the same as I did then. I went down and a lot of 'em fell on me, and I was kicked and jumped on till I'm just as if all the hoops was off my staves, Mas' Don; but that arn't the worst of it, because it won't hurt me. I'm a reg'lar wunner to mend again. You never knew any one who got cut as could heal up as fast as me. See how strong my ribs grew together, and so did my leg when I got kicked by that horse." "But are you in much pain now?" "I should just think I am, Mas' Don; I feel as if I was being cut up with blunt saws as had been made red hot first." "Jem, my poor fellow!" groaned Don. "Now don't go on like that, Mas' Don, and make it worse." "Would they give us a candle, Jem, do you think, if I was to knock?" "Not they, my lad; and I don't want one. You'd be seeing how queer I looked if you got a light. There, sit down and let's talk." Don groped along by the damp wall till he reached the place where his companion lay, and then went down on his knees beside him. "It seems to be all over, Jem," he said. "Over? Not it, my lad. Seems to me as if it's all just going to begin." "Then we shall be made sailors." "S'pose so, Mas' Don. Well, I don't know as I should so much mind if it warn't | Don Lavington |
queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar. | No speaker | Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know | in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in | grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in | isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save | ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did | pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed | Matthew and I are here, but nobody knows what is going to happen in this uncertain world, and it's just as well to be prepared. So you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne." "Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms about Marilla's waist and looked up earnestly into her face. "I'm extremely grateful to you and Matthew. And I'll study as hard as I can and do my very best to be a credit to you. I warn you not to expect much in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything else if I work hard." "I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you are bright and diligent." Not for worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have been to pamper vanity. "You needn't rush to any extreme of killing yourself over your books. There is no hurry. You won't be ready to try the Entrance for a year and a half yet. But it's well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says." "I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now," said Anne blissfully, "because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan says everybody should have a purpose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose. I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you, Marilla? I think it's a very noble profession." The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson joined it. Diana Barry did not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. On the evening when the Queen's class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on the necklace of the year. She was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to be learned and honor to be won; delightful books to read; new pieces to be practiced for the Sunday-school choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with Mrs. Allan; and then, almost before Anne realized it, spring had come again to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once more. Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen's class, left behind in school while the others scattered to green lanes and leafy wood cuts and meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the windows and discovered that Latin verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang and zest they had possessed in the crisp winter months. Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent. Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily before them. "But you've done good work this past year," Miss Stacy told them on the last evening, "and you deserve a good, jolly vacation. Have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year. It will be the tug of war, you know--the last year before the Entrance." "Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie Pye. Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the rest of the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have dared to ask it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumors running at large through the school for some time that Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year--that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. "Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." "Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings | not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. On the evening when the Queen's class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?"<|quote|>queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.</|quote|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any," said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been | Anne Of Green Gables |
"You don't mean it!" | Mr. James Harthouse | more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed | to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed | Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! | riding along at a foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road. "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have you heard?" "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! as a sum if you stick to a sum of not more than a hundred and fifty pound," said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's not the sum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank being robbed, that's the important circumstance. I am surprised you don't see it." "My | do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road. "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have you heard?" "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! as a sum if you stick to a sum of not more than a hundred and fifty pound," said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's not the sum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank being robbed, that's the important circumstance. I am surprised you don't see it." "My dear Bounderby," said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, "I _do_ see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you which I do with all my soul, I assure you on your not having sustained a greater loss." "Thank'ee," replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. "But I tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound." "I suppose it might." "Suppose it might! By the Lord, you _may_ suppose so. By George!" | wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships. When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. As he had rather a long ride to take that day for there was a public occasion "to do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road. "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have you heard?" "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! as a sum if you stick to a sum of not more than a hundred and fifty pound," said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's not the sum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank being robbed, that's the important circumstance. I am surprised you don't see it." "My dear Bounderby," said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, "I _do_ see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you which I do with all my soul, I assure you on your not having sustained a greater loss." "Thank'ee," replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. "But I tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound." "I suppose it might." "Suppose it might! By the Lord, you _may_ suppose so. By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. "It might have been twice twenty. There's no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn't have been, as it was, but for the fellows' being disturbed." Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer. "Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knows pretty well what it might have been, if you don't," blustered Bounderby. "Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!" She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked her how the robbery had been committed. "Why, I am going to tell you," said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. "If you hadn't been so mighty particular about the sum, I should have begun to tell you before. You know this lady (for she _is_ a lady), Mrs. Sparsit?" "I have already had the honour" "Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him too on the same occasion?" Mr. Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and Bitzer knuckled his | of brother which you ought to be." "I will be, Mr. Harthouse." "No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once." "Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so." "Having made which bargain, Tom," said Harthouse, clapping him on the shoulder again, with an air which left him at liberty to infer as he did, poor fool that this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, "we will tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time." When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind seemed heavy enough, his body was on the alert; and he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. "I didn't mean to be cross, Loo," he said, giving her his hand, and kissing her. "I know you are fond of me, and you know I am fond of you." After this, there was a smile upon Louisa's face that day, for some one else. Alas, for some one else! "So much the less is the whelp the only creature that she cares for," thought James Harthouse, reversing the reflection of his first day's knowledge of her pretty face. "So much the less, so much the less." CHAPTER VIII EXPLOSION THE next morning was too bright a morning for sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, and sat in the pleasant bay window of his dressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco that had had so wholesome an influence on his young friend. Reposing in the sunlight, with the fragrance of his eastern pipe about him, and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air, so rich and soft with summer odours, he reckoned up his advantages as an idle winner might count his gains. He was not at all bored for the time, and could give his mind to it. He had established a confidence with her, from which her husband was excluded. He had established a confidence with her, that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence, now and at all times, of any congeniality between them. He had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate recesses; he had come so near to her through its tenderest sentiment; he had associated himself with that feeling; and the barrier behind which she lived, had melted away. All very odd, and very satisfactory! And yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him. Publicly and privately, it were much better for the age in which he lived, that he and the legion of whom he was one were designedly bad, than indifferent and purposeless. It is the drifting icebergs setting with any current anywhere, that wreck the ships. When the Devil goeth about like a roaring lion, he goeth about in a shape by which few but savages and hunters are attracted. But, when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished, according to the mode; when he is aweary of vice, and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. As he had rather a long ride to take that day for there was a public occasion "to do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road. "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have you heard?" "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! as a sum if you stick to a sum of not more than a hundred and fifty pound," said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's not the sum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank being robbed, that's the important circumstance. I am surprised you don't see it." "My dear Bounderby," said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, "I _do_ see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you which I do with all my soul, I assure you on your not having sustained a greater loss." "Thank'ee," replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. "But I tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound." "I suppose it might." "Suppose it might! By the Lord, you _may_ suppose so. By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. "It might have been twice twenty. There's no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn't have been, as it was, but for the fellows' being disturbed." Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer. "Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knows pretty well what it might have been, if you don't," blustered Bounderby. "Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!" She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked her how the robbery had been committed. "Why, I am going to tell you," said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. "If you hadn't been so mighty particular about the sum, I should have begun to tell you before. You know this lady (for she _is_ a lady), Mrs. Sparsit?" "I have already had the honour" "Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him too on the same occasion?" Mr. Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and Bitzer knuckled his forehead. "Very well. They live at the Bank. You know they live at the Bank, perhaps? Very well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of business hours, everything was put away as usual. In the iron room that this young fellow sleeps outside of, there was never mind how much. In the little safe in young Tom's closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there was a hundred and fifty odd pound." "A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one," said Bitzer. "Come!" retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel round upon him, "let's have none of _your_ interruptions. It's enough to be robbed while you're snoring because you're too comfortable, without being put right with _your_ four seven ones. I didn't snore, myself, when I was your age, let me tell you. I hadn't victuals enough to snore. And I didn't four seven one. Not if I knew it." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, and seemed at once particularly impressed and depressed by the instance last given of Mr. Bounderby's moral abstinence. "A hundred and fifty odd pound," resumed Mr. Bounderby. "That sum of money, young Tom locked in his safe, not a very strong safe, but that's no matter now. Everything was left, all right. Some time in the night, while this young fellow snored Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, you say you have heard him snore?" "Sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I cannot say that I have heard him precisely snore, and therefore must not make that statement. But on winter evenings, when he has fallen asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have heard him on such occasions produce sounds of a nature similar to what may be sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Not," said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving strict evidence, "that I would convey any imputation on his moral character. Far from it. I have always considered Bitzer a young man of the most upright principle; and to that I beg to bear my testimony." "Well!" said the exasperated Bounderby, "while he was snoring, _or_ choking, _or_ Dutch-clocking, _or_ something _or_ other being asleep some fellows, somehow, whether previously concealed in the house or not remains to be seen, got to young Tom's safe, forced it, and abstracted the contents. Being then disturbed, they made off; letting themselves out at the main door, and | and aweary of virtue, used up as to brimstone, and used up as to bliss; then, whether he take to the serving out of red tape, or to the kindling of red fire, he is the very Devil. So James Harthouse reclined in the window, indolently smoking, and reckoning up the steps he had taken on the road by which he happened to be travelling. The end to which it led was before him, pretty plainly; but he troubled himself with no calculations about it. What will be, will be. As he had rather a long ride to take that day for there was a public occasion "to do" at some distance, which afforded a tolerable opportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men he dressed early and went down to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed since the previous evening. No. He resumed where he had left off. There was a look of interest for him again. He got through the day as much (or as little) to his own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fatiguing circumstances; and came riding back at six o'clock. There was a sweep of some half-mile between the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, when Mr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery, with such violence as to make his horse shy across the road. "Harthouse!" cried Mr. Bounderby. "Have you heard?" "Heard what?" said Harthouse, soothing his horse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderby with no good wishes. "Then you _haven't_ heard!" "I have heard you, and so has this brute. I have heard nothing else." Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himself in the centre of the path before the horse's head, to explode his bombshell with more effect. "The Bank's robbed!"<|quote|>"You don't mean it!"</|quote|>"Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in an extraordinary manner. Robbed with a false key." "Of much?" Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make the most of it, really seemed mortified by being obliged to reply, "Why, no; not of very much. But it might have been." "Of how much?" "Oh! as a sum if you stick to a sum of not more than a hundred and fifty pound," said Bounderby, with impatience. "But it's not the sum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank being robbed, that's the important circumstance. I am surprised you don't see it." "My dear Bounderby," said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, "I _do_ see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you which I do with all my soul, I assure you on your not having sustained a greater loss." "Thank'ee," replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. "But I tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound." "I suppose it might." "Suppose it might! By the Lord, you _may_ suppose so. By George!" said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. "It might have been twice twenty. There's no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn't have been, as it was, but for the fellows' being disturbed." Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer. "Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knows pretty well what it might have been, if you don't," blustered Bounderby. "Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!" She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked | Hard Times |
"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog." | Bill Gorton | one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the | alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have | taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed | "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." | mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like | to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, | 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 the fiesta at Pamplona. He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: "Jake, Budapest is wonderful." Then I got a wire: "Back on Monday." Monday evening he turned up at the flat. I heard his taxi stop and went to the window and called to him; he waved and started up-stairs carrying his bags. I met him on the stairs, and took one of the bags. "Well," I said, "I hear you had a wonderful trip." "Wonderful," he said. "Budapest is absolutely wonderful." "How about Vienna?" "Not so good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was." "How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon. "Tight, Jake. I was tight." "That's strange. Better have a drink." Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened." "Last long?" "Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days." "Where did you go?" "Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly." "Do anything else?" "Not so sure. Possible." "Go on. Tell me about it." "Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have to go all the way down to the island to eat." "Nix," I said. "We're going to have a regular meal." "Just a suggestion," said Bill. "Want to start now?" "Come on." We started on again down the Boulevard. A horse-cab passed us. Bill looked at it. "See that horse-cab? Going to have that horse-cab stuffed for you for Christmas. Going to give all my friends stuffed animals. I'm a nature-writer." A taxi passed, some one in it waved, then banged for the driver to stop. The taxi backed up to the curb. In it was Brett. "Beautiful lady," said Bill. "Going to kidnap us." "Hullo!" Brett said. "Hullo!" "This is Bill Gorton. Lady Ashley." Brett smiled at Bill. "I say I'm just back. Haven't bathed even. Michael comes in to-night." "Good. Come on and eat with us, and we'll all go to meet him." "Must clean myself." "Oh, rot! Come on." "Must bathe. He doesn't get in till nine." "Come and have a drink, then, before you bathe." "Might do that. Now you're not talking rot." We got in the taxi. The driver looked around. "Stop at the nearest bistro," I said. "We might as well go to the Closerie," Brett said. "I can't drink these rotten brandies." "Closerie des Lilas." Brett turned to Bill. "Have you been in this pestilential city long?" "Just got in to-day from Budapest." "How was Budapest?" "Wonderful. Budapest was wonderful." "Ask him about Vienna." "Vienna," said Bill, "is a strange city." "Very much like Paris," Brett smiled at him, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. "Exactly," Bill said. "Very much like Paris at this moment." "You _have_ a good start." Sitting out on the terraces of the Lilas Brett ordered a whiskey and soda, I took one, too, and Bill took another pernod. "How are you, Jake?" "Great," I said. "I've had a good time." Brett looked at me. "I was a fool to go away," she said. "One's an ass to leave Paris." "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, all right. Interesting. Not frightfully amusing." "See anybody?" "No, hardly anybody. I never went out." "Didn't you swim?" "No. Didn't do a thing." "Sounds like Vienna," Bill said. Brett wrinkled up the corners of her eyes at him. "So that's the way it was in Vienna." "It was like everything in Vienna." Brett smiled at him again. "You've a nice friend, Jake." "He's all right," I said. "He's a taxidermist." "That was in another country," Bill said. "And besides all the animals were dead." "One more," Brett said, "and I must run. Do send the waiter for a taxi." "There's a line of them. Right out in front." "Good." We had the drink and put Brett into her taxi. "Mind you're at the Select around ten. Make him come. Michael will be there." "We'll be there," Bill said. The taxi started and Brett waved. "Quite a girl," Bill said. "She's damned nice. Who's Michael?" "The man she's going to marry." "Well, well," Bill said. "That's always just the stage I meet anybody. What'll I send them? Think they'd like a couple of stuffed race-horses?" "We better eat." "Is she really Lady something or other?" Bill asked in the taxi on our way down to the Ile Saint Louis. "Oh, yes. In the stud-book and everything." "Well, well." We ate dinner at Madame Lecomte's restaurant on the far | good, Jake. Not so good. It seemed better than it was." "How do you mean?" I was getting glasses and a siphon. "Tight, Jake. I was tight." "That's strange. Better have a drink." Bill rubbed his forehead. "Remarkable thing," he said. "Don't know how it happened. Suddenly it happened." "Last long?" "Four days, Jake. Lasted just four days." "Where did you go?" "Don't remember. Wrote you a post-card. Remember that perfectly." "Do anything else?" "Not so sure. Possible." "Go on. Tell me about it." "Can't remember. Tell you anything I could remember." "Go on. Take that drink and remember." "Might remember a little," Bill said. "Remember something about a prize-fight. Enormous Vienna prize-fight. Had a nigger in it. Remember the nigger perfectly." "Go on." "Wonderful nigger. Looked like Tiger Flowers, only four times as big. All of a sudden everybody started to throw things. Not me. Nigger'd just knocked local boy down. Nigger put up his glove. Wanted to make a speech. Awful noble-looking nigger. Started to make a speech. Then local white boy hit him. Then he knocked white boy cold. Then everybody commenced to throw chairs. Nigger went home with us in our car. Couldn't get his clothes. Wore my coat. Remember the whole thing now. Big sporting evening." "What happened?" "Loaned the nigger some clothes and went around with him to try and get his money. Claimed nigger owed them money on account of wrecking hall. Wonder who translated? Was it me?" "Probably it wasn't you." "You're right. Wasn't me at all. Was another fellow. Think we called him the local Harvard man. Remember him now. Studying music." "How'd you come out?" "Not so good, Jake. Injustice everywhere. Promoter claimed nigger promised let local boy stay. Claimed nigger violated contract. Can't knock out Vienna boy in Vienna." 'My God, Mister Gorton,' "said nigger," 'I didn't do nothing in there for forty minutes but try and let him stay. That white boy musta ruptured himself swinging at me. I never did hit him.'" "Did you get any money?" "No money, Jake. All we could get was nigger's clothes. Somebody took his watch, too. Splendid nigger. Big mistake to have come to Vienna. Not so good, Jake. Not so good." "What became of the nigger?" "Went back to Cologne. Lives there. Married. Got a family. Going to write me a letter and send me the money I loaned him. Wonderful nigger. Hope I gave him the right address." "You probably did." "Well, anyway, let's eat," said Bill. "Unless you want me to tell you some more travel stories." "Go on." "Let's eat." We went down-stairs and out onto the Boulevard St. Michel in the warm June evening. "Where will we go?" "Want to eat on the island?" "Sure." We walked down the Boulevard. At the juncture of the Rue Denfert-Rochereau with the Boulevard is a statue of two men in flowing robes. "I know who they are." Bill eyed the monument. "Gentlemen who invented pharmacy. Don't try and fool me on Paris." We went on. "Here's a taxidermist's," Bill said. "Want to buy anything? Nice stuffed dog?" "Come on," I said. "You're pie-eyed." "Pretty nice stuffed dogs," Bill said. "Certainly brighten up your flat." "Come on." "Just one stuffed dog. I can take 'em or leave 'em alone. But listen, Jake. Just one stuffed dog." "Come on."<|quote|>"Mean everything in the world to you after you bought it. Simple exchange of values. You give them money. They give you a stuffed dog."</|quote|>"We'll get one on the way back." "All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault." We went on. "How'd you feel that way about dogs so sudden?" "Always felt that way about dogs. Always been a great lover of stuffed animals." We stopped and had a drink. "Certainly like to drink," Bill said. "You ought to try it some times, Jake." "You're about a hundred and forty-four ahead of me." "Ought not to daunt you. Never be daunted. Secret of my success. Never been daunted. Never been daunted in public." "Where were you drinking?" "Stopped at the Crillon. George made me a couple of Jack Roses. George's a great man. Know the secret of his success? Never been daunted." "You'll be daunted after about three more pernods." "Not in public. If I begin to feel daunted I'll go off by myself. I'm like a cat that way." "When did you see Harvey Stone?" "At the Crillon. Harvey was just a little daunted. Hadn't eaten for three days. Doesn't eat any more. Just goes off like a cat. Pretty sad." "He's all right." "Splendid. Wish he wouldn't keep going off like a cat, though. Makes me nervous." "What'll we do to-night?" "Doesn't make any difference. Only let's not get daunted. Suppose they got any hard-boiled eggs here? If they had hard-boiled eggs here we wouldn't have | The Sun Also Rises |
"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." | Margaret | too much to humour her.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss | firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to humour her.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox," said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | a place going, don t they? Yes, it is just that." "They keep England going, it is my opinion." But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, well, it s a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn t for us to repine." "They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ll never be a bad one--never really bad." "No, better 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | "You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me." It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother s chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room--over the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago--Miss Avery had placed Tibby s old bassinette. "The nursery," she said. Margaret turned away without speaking. At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl s silly letter had but loosed the irritation of years. "It s a beautiful meadow," she remarked. It was one of those open-air drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex--a sort of powder-closet for the cows. "Yes, the maidy s well enough," said Miss Avery, "for those, that is, who don t suffer from sneezing." And she cackled maliciously. "I ve seen Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time--oh, they ought to do this--they mustn t do that--he d learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has it from his father, with other things. There s not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June--I laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth." "My brother gets hay fever too," said Margaret. "This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally, they were glad enough to slip in at first. But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see you ve found." Margaret laughed. "They keep a place going, don t they? Yes, it is just that." "They keep England going, it is my opinion." But Miss Avery upset her by replying: "Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, well, it s a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn t for us to repine." "They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ll never be a bad one--never really bad." "No, better 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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--" "Yes, dear?" "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 | t for us to repine." "They breed and they also work," said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. "It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it ll never be a bad one--never really bad." "No, better 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.<|quote|>"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."</|quote|>"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 | Howards End |
"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." | Hercule Poirot | I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to | quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped | a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you | I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." | Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and | distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through | so great Shakespeare says," that is the question.'" I did not trouble to correct the quotation. "You are not serious, Poirot?" "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance." "And that is?" "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_," he said gravely. I did not quite know what to say. "The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast. After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message. "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!" I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off. "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way." "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day." I told him about the letter. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did | all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.<|quote|>"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."</|quote|>"How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
said the boatswain, ill-humouredly. | No speaker | hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered | 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's | his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they | and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the | the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch | their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast | as if they might be hiding in here." There was a rattling and rustling of stones and growth, and then the man at the entrance stooped down and held out his hands to assist some one to ascend, the result being that the broad heavy figure of Bosun Jones came into view. "Not likely to be here, my lad, even if they were in hiding; but this is a wild goose chase. They're dead as dead." "P'r'aps so, sir; but I think they're in hiding somewhere. Praps here." "Humph! No. Poor fellows, they were drowned." "No, sir, I don't think it," said Ramsden. "Those niggers looked as if they knew something, and that tattooed fellow who has run away from Norfolk Island has encouraged them to desert. As like as not they may be in here listening to all I say." "Well then, go in and fetch them out," said the boatswain. "You can go in while I have a rest." Don's heart beat fast at those words, for he heard a loud hissing sound beside him, caused by Jem drawing in his breath; and the next moment, as he held his arm, he felt a thrill, for it seemed as if Jem's muscles had tightened up suddenly. Then there was a hot breath upon his cheek, and a tickling sensation in his ear beyond; Jem's lips seemed to settle themselves against it, and the tickling sensation was renewed, as Jem whispered,-- "I've cleared my decks for action, Mas' Don. It was that beggar as told on us. You stand aside when he comes on." Don twisted his head round, caught Jem by the shoulder, and favoured him with the same buzzing sensation as he whispered,-- "What are you going to do?" Jem re-applied his lips to Don's ear. "I'm going to make him very sorry he ever come to sea. Once I gets hold of him I'll make him feel like a walnut in a door." "Don't look a very cheerful place, Mr Jones," came from the mouth of the cavern. "Afraid to go in?" "Afraid, sir? You never knew me afraid." "Well, in you go and fetch them out," said the boatswain with a laugh. "If you don't come back I shall know that the Maoris have got you, and are saving you for the pot." From where Don and Jem stood in the darkness they could see their spying sinister friend give quite a start; but he laughed off the impression the boatswain's words had made, and began to come cautiously on, feeling his way as a man does who has just left the bright sunshine to enter a dark place. Jem uttered a loud hiss as he drew his breath, and Ramsden heard it and stopped. "Mr Jones," he said sharply. "Well?" "Think there's any big snakes here? I heard a hiss." "Only steam from a hot spring. No snakes in this country." "Oh!" ejaculated Ramsden: and he came cautiously on. Don felt Jem's arm begin to twitch, and discovery seemed imminent. For a few moments he was irresolute, but, knowing that if they were to escape they must remain unseen, he let his hand slide down to Jem's wrist, caught it firmly, and began to back farther into the cave. For a few moments he had to drag hard at his companion but, as if yielding to silently communicated superior orders Jem followed him slowly, step by step, with the greatest of caution, and in utter silence. The floor of the cave was wonderfully smooth, the rock feeling as if it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was | it had been worn by the constant passage over it of water, and using their bare feet as guides, and feeling with them every step, they backed in as fast as Ramsden approached, being as it were between two dangers, that of recapture, and the hidden perils, whatever they might be, of the cave. It was nerve-stirring work, for all beyond was intense darkness, out of which, as they backed farther and farther in, came strange whisperings, guttural gurglings, which sounded to Don as if the inhabitants of the place were retiring angrily before their disturbers, till, driven to bay in some corner, they turned and attacked. But still Don held tightly by Jem's wrist, and mastering his dread of the unknown, crept softly in, turning from time to time to watch Ramsden, who came on as if some instinct told him that those he sought for were there. "Found 'em?" shouted the boatswain; and his voice taught the hiding pair that the cave went far in beyond them, for the sound went muttering by, and seemed to die away as if far down a long passage. "Not yet, but I think I can hear 'em," replied Ramsden. "You can hear a self-satisfied fool talking,"<|quote|>said the boatswain, ill-humouredly.</|quote|>"So can Mr Jones," muttered the man. "Hear you. That's what I can hear." "What are you muttering about?" "I think I can hear 'em, sir. Now then, you two, give up. It'll be the worse for you if you don't." Don's hand tightened on his companion's wrist, and they stood fast, for Ramsden was stopping in a bent attitude, listening. There was nothing to be heard but the whisperings and gurglings, and then they saw him draw his cutlass and come on. Jem's muscles gave another jerk, but he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he | Don Lavington |
“Daisy?” | Tom | tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was | dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was | perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she | Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you | my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with | you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend | ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was tempted to laugh whenever he opened his mouth. The transition from libertine to prig was so complete. “I’ve got something to tell you, old sport—” began Gatsby. But Daisy guessed at his intention. “Please don’t!” she interrupted helplessly. “Please let’s all go home. Why don’t we all go home?” “That’s a good idea,” I got up. “Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink.” “I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me.” “Your wife doesn’t love you,” said Gatsby. “She’s never loved you. She loves me.” “You must be crazy!” exclaimed Tom automatically. Gatsby sprang to his feet, vivid with excitement. “She never loved you, do you hear?” he cried. “She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on the tip of her chin. Then I turned back to Gatsby—and was startled at his expression. He looked—and this is said in all contempt for the babbled slander of his garden—as if he had “killed a man.” For a moment the set of his face could be described in just that fantastic way. It passed, and he began to talk excitedly to Daisy, denying everything, defending his name against accusations that had not been made. But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room. The voice begged again to go. “Please, Tom! I can’t stand this any more.” Her frightened eyes told that whatever intentions, whatever courage she had had, were definitely gone. “You two start on home, Daisy,” said Tom. “In Mr. Gatsby’s car.” She looked at Tom, alarmed now, but he insisted with magnanimous scorn. “Go on. He won’t annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over.” They were gone, without a word, snapped out, made accidental, isolated, like ghosts, even from our pity. After a moment Tom got up and began wrapping the unopened bottle of whisky in the towel. “Want any of this stuff? Jordan? … Nick?” I didn’t answer. “Nick?” He asked again. “What?” “Want any?” “No … I just remembered that | you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved anyone except me!” At this point Jordan and I tried to go, but Tom and Gatsby insisted with competitive firmness that we remain—as though neither of them had anything to conceal and it would be a privilege to partake vicariously of their emotions. “Sit down, Daisy,” Tom’s voice groped unsuccessfully for the paternal note. “What’s been going on? I want to hear all about it.” “I told you what’s been going on,” said Gatsby. “Going on for five years—and you didn’t know.” Tom turned to Daisy sharply. “You’ve been seeing this fellow for five years?” “Not seeing,” said Gatsby. “No, we couldn’t meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn’t know. I used to laugh sometimes” —but there was no laughter in his eyes— “to think that you didn’t know.” “Oh—that’s all.” Tom tapped his thick fingers together like a clergyman and leaned back in his chair. “You’re crazy!” he exploded. “I can’t speak about what happened five years ago, because I didn’t know Daisy then—and I’ll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that’s a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now.” “No,” said Gatsby, shaking his head. “She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He nodded sagely. “And what’s more, I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time.” “You’re revolting,” said Daisy. She turned to me, and her voice, dropping an octave lower, filled the room with thrilling scorn: “Do you know why we left Chicago? I’m surprised that they didn’t treat you to the story of that little spree.” Gatsby walked over and stood beside her. “Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it’s all wiped out forever.” She looked at him blindly. “Why—how could I love him—possibly?” “You never loved him.” She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing—and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late. “I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance. “Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly. “No.” From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air. “Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone …<|quote|>“Daisy?”</|quote|>“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancour was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said—but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet. “Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now—isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once—but I loved you too.” Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed. “You loved me too?” he repeated. “Even that’s a lie,” said Tom savagely. “She didn’t know you were alive. Why—there’s things between Daisy and me that you’ll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget.” The words seemed to bite physically into Gatsby. “I want to speak to Daisy alone,” he insisted. “She’s all excited now—” “Even alone I can’t say I never loved Tom,” she admitted in a pitiful voice. “It wouldn’t be true.” “Of course it wouldn’t,” agreed Tom. She turned to her husband. “As if it mattered to you,” she said. “Of course it matters. I’m going to take better care of you from now on.” “You don’t understand,” said Gatsby, with a touch of panic. “You’re not going to take care of her any more.” “I’m not?” Tom opened his eyes wide and laughed. He could afford to control himself now. “Why’s that?” “Daisy’s leaving you.” “Nonsense.” “I am, though,” she said with a visible effort. “She’s not leaving me!” Tom’s words suddenly leaned down over Gatsby. “Certainly not for a common swindler who’d have to steal the ring he put on her finger.” “I won’t stand this!” cried Daisy. “Oh, please let’s get out.” “Who are you, anyhow?” broke out Tom. “You’re one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfshiem—that much I happen to know. I’ve made a little investigation into your affairs—and I’ll carry it further tomorrow.” “You can suit yourself about that, old sport,” said Gatsby steadily. “I found out what your ‘drugstores’ were.” He turned to us and spoke rapidly. “He and this Wolfshiem bought up a lot of side-street drugstores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That’s one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn’t far wrong.” “What about it?” said Gatsby politely. “I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn’t too proud to come in on it.” “And you left him in the lurch, didn’t you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of you.” “He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport.” “Don’t you call me ‘old sport’!” cried Tom. Gatsby said nothing. “Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfshiem scared him into shutting his mouth.” That unfamiliar yet recognizable look was back again in Gatsby’s face. “That drugstore business was just small change,” continued Tom slowly, “but you’ve got something on now that Walter’s afraid to tell me about.” I glanced at Daisy, who was staring terrified between Gatsby and her husband, and at Jordan, who had begun to balance an invisible but absorbing object on | The Great Gatsby |
"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..." | Therese De Vitre | ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, | her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was | bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then | she moved with an air of exultance, as though she had lately shed an encumbrance and was not yet fatigued by the other burdens that would succeed it. For two years she had been at school in Paris. "...Some of us used to keep lipstick and rouge secretly in our bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then one day she had a letter from her young man saying he was going to marry another girl. How she cried. We all read the letter and most of us cried too... But in Trinidad it will be quite easy." Tony told her about the expedition; of the Peruvian emigrants | "Well... someone called Colonel Strapper." "Do I look so old?" "Are colonels old? I didn't know. It's not a thing we have much in Trinidad. Now I know who you are because I asked the head steward. Do tell me about your exploring." "You'd better ask Doctor Messinger. He knows more about it than I do." "No, _you_ tell me." She was eighteen years old; small and dark, with a face that disappeared in a soft pointed chin so that attention was drawn to the grave eyes and the high forehead; she had not long outgrown her schoolgirl plumpness and she moved with an air of exultance, as though she had lately shed an encumbrance and was not yet fatigued by the other burdens that would succeed it. For two years she had been at school in Paris. "...Some of us used to keep lipstick and rouge secretly in our bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then one day she had a letter from her young man saying he was going to marry another girl. How she cried. We all read the letter and most of us cried too... But in Trinidad it will be quite easy." Tony told her about the expedition; of the Peruvian emigrants in the middle ages and their long caravan working through the mountains and forests, llamas packed with works of intricate craftsmanship; of the continual rumours percolating to the coast and luring adventurers up into the forests; of the route they would take up the rivers, then cutting through the bush along Indian trails and across untravelled country; of the stream they might strike higher up and how, Dr Messinger said, they would make woodskin canoes and take to the water again; how finally they would arrive under the walls of the city like the Vikings at Byzantium. "But of course," | shark, it's a dolphin." "Mr Brink said it was a porpoise." "There he is again. Oh, if I had my camera." "); clear, tranquil water and the regular turn and tread of the screw; there were many hands to caress the beagles as they went loping by. Mr Brink amid laughter suggested that he should exercise the racehorse, or, with a further burst of invention, the bull. Mr Brink sat at the purser's table with the cheery crowd. Dr Messinger left his cabin and appeared on deck and in the dining-saloon. So did the wife of the archdeacon; she was very much whiter than her husband. On Tony's other side at table sat a girl named Th?r?se de Vitr?. He had noticed her once or twice during the grey days, a forlorn figure almost lost among furs and cushions and rugs; a colourless little face with wide dark eyes. She said, "The last days have been terrible. I saw you walking about. How I envied you." "It ought to be calm all the way now," and inevitably, "Are you going far?" "Trinidad. That is my home... I tried to decide who you were from the passenger list." "Who was I?" "Well... someone called Colonel Strapper." "Do I look so old?" "Are colonels old? I didn't know. It's not a thing we have much in Trinidad. Now I know who you are because I asked the head steward. Do tell me about your exploring." "You'd better ask Doctor Messinger. He knows more about it than I do." "No, _you_ tell me." She was eighteen years old; small and dark, with a face that disappeared in a soft pointed chin so that attention was drawn to the grave eyes and the high forehead; she had not long outgrown her schoolgirl plumpness and she moved with an air of exultance, as though she had lately shed an encumbrance and was not yet fatigued by the other burdens that would succeed it. For two years she had been at school in Paris. "...Some of us used to keep lipstick and rouge secretly in our bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then one day she had a letter from her young man saying he was going to marry another girl. How she cried. We all read the letter and most of us cried too... But in Trinidad it will be quite easy." Tony told her about the expedition; of the Peruvian emigrants in the middle ages and their long caravan working through the mountains and forests, llamas packed with works of intricate craftsmanship; of the continual rumours percolating to the coast and luring adventurers up into the forests; of the route they would take up the rivers, then cutting through the bush along Indian trails and across untravelled country; of the stream they might strike higher up and how, Dr Messinger said, they would make woodskin canoes and take to the water again; how finally they would arrive under the walls of the city like the Vikings at Byzantium. "But of course," he added, "there may be nothing in it. It ought to be an interesting journey in any case." "How I wish I was a man," said Th?r?se de Vitr?. After dinner they danced to the music of an amplified gramophone and the girl drank lemon squash on the bench outside the deck bar, sucking it through two straws. * * * * * A week of blue water that grew clearer and more tranquil daily, of sun that grew warmer, radiating the ship and her passengers, filling them with good humour and ease; blue water that caught the sun in a thousand brilliant points, dazzling the eyes as they searched for porpoises and flying fish; clear blue water in the shallows revealing its bed of silver sand and smooth pebble, fathoms down; soft warm shade on deck under the awnings; the ship moved amid unbroken horizons on a vast blue disc of blue, sparkling with sunlight. Tony and Miss de Vitr? played quoits and shuffle-board; they threw rope rings into a bucket from a short distance. (" "We'll go in a small boat," Dr Messinger had said, "so as to escape all that hideous nonsense of deck games." ") Twice | Atlantic. Ponderous waves rising over murky, opaque depths. Dappled with foam at the crests, like downland, where on the high, exposed places snow has survived the thaw. Lead-grey and slate in the sun, olive, field blue and khaki like the uniforms of a battlefield; the sky overhead was neutral and steely with swollen clouds scudding across it, affording rare half-hours of sunlight. The masts swung slowly across this sky and the bows heaved and wallowed below the horizon. The man who had made friends with Tony paraded the deck with the two beagles. They strained at the end of their chains, sniffing the scuppers; the man lurched behind them unsteadily. He wore a pair of race glasses with which he occasionally surveyed the seas; he offered them to Tony whenever they passed each other. "Been talking to the wireless operator," he said. "We ought to pass quite near the Yarmouth Castle at about eleven." Few of the passengers were on their feet. Those who had come on deck lay in long chairs on the sheltered side, pensive, wrapped in tartan rugs. Dr Messinger kept to his cabin. Tony went to see him and found him torpid, for he was taking large doses of chloral. Towards evening the wind freshened and by dinner-time was blowing hard; portholes were screwed up and all destructible objects disposed on the cabin floors; a sudden roll broke a dozen coffee cups in the music and reading room. That night there was little sleep for anyone on board; the plating creaked, luggage shifted from wall to wall. Tony wedged himself firm in his bunk with the lifebelt and thought of the City. ...Carpet and canopy, tapestry and velvet, portcullis and bastion, waterfowl on the moat and kingcups along its margin, peacocks trailing their finery across the lawns; high overhead in a sky of sapphire and swansdown silver bells chiming in a turret of alabaster. Days of shadow and exhaustion, salt wind and wet mist, foghorn and the constant groan and creak of straining metal. Then they were clear of it, after the Azores. Awnings were out and passengers moved their chairs to windward. High noon and an even keel; the blue water lapping against the sides of the ship, rippling away behind her to the horizon; gramophones and deck tennis; bright arcs of flying fish (" "Look, Ernie, come quick, there's a shark." "That's not a shark, it's a dolphin." "Mr Brink said it was a porpoise." "There he is again. Oh, if I had my camera." "); clear, tranquil water and the regular turn and tread of the screw; there were many hands to caress the beagles as they went loping by. Mr Brink amid laughter suggested that he should exercise the racehorse, or, with a further burst of invention, the bull. Mr Brink sat at the purser's table with the cheery crowd. Dr Messinger left his cabin and appeared on deck and in the dining-saloon. So did the wife of the archdeacon; she was very much whiter than her husband. On Tony's other side at table sat a girl named Th?r?se de Vitr?. He had noticed her once or twice during the grey days, a forlorn figure almost lost among furs and cushions and rugs; a colourless little face with wide dark eyes. She said, "The last days have been terrible. I saw you walking about. How I envied you." "It ought to be calm all the way now," and inevitably, "Are you going far?" "Trinidad. That is my home... I tried to decide who you were from the passenger list." "Who was I?" "Well... someone called Colonel Strapper." "Do I look so old?" "Are colonels old? I didn't know. It's not a thing we have much in Trinidad. Now I know who you are because I asked the head steward. Do tell me about your exploring." "You'd better ask Doctor Messinger. He knows more about it than I do." "No, _you_ tell me." She was eighteen years old; small and dark, with a face that disappeared in a soft pointed chin so that attention was drawn to the grave eyes and the high forehead; she had not long outgrown her schoolgirl plumpness and she moved with an air of exultance, as though she had lately shed an encumbrance and was not yet fatigued by the other burdens that would succeed it. For two years she had been at school in Paris. "...Some of us used to keep lipstick and rouge secretly in our bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then one day she had a letter from her young man saying he was going to marry another girl. How she cried. We all read the letter and most of us cried too... But in Trinidad it will be quite easy." Tony told her about the expedition; of the Peruvian emigrants in the middle ages and their long caravan working through the mountains and forests, llamas packed with works of intricate craftsmanship; of the continual rumours percolating to the coast and luring adventurers up into the forests; of the route they would take up the rivers, then cutting through the bush along Indian trails and across untravelled country; of the stream they might strike higher up and how, Dr Messinger said, they would make woodskin canoes and take to the water again; how finally they would arrive under the walls of the city like the Vikings at Byzantium. "But of course," he added, "there may be nothing in it. It ought to be an interesting journey in any case." "How I wish I was a man," said Th?r?se de Vitr?. After dinner they danced to the music of an amplified gramophone and the girl drank lemon squash on the bench outside the deck bar, sucking it through two straws. * * * * * A week of blue water that grew clearer and more tranquil daily, of sun that grew warmer, radiating the ship and her passengers, filling them with good humour and ease; blue water that caught the sun in a thousand brilliant points, dazzling the eyes as they searched for porpoises and flying fish; clear blue water in the shallows revealing its bed of silver sand and smooth pebble, fathoms down; soft warm shade on deck under the awnings; the ship moved amid unbroken horizons on a vast blue disc of blue, sparkling with sunlight. Tony and Miss de Vitr? played quoits and shuffle-board; they threw rope rings into a bucket from a short distance. (" "We'll go in a small boat," Dr Messinger had said, "so as to escape all that hideous nonsense of deck games." ") Twice consecutively Tony won the sweepstake on the ship's run; the prize was eighteen shillings. He bought Miss de Vitr? a woollen rabbit at the barber's shop. It was unusual for Tony to use "Miss" in talking to anyone. Except Miss Tendril, he could think of no one he addressed in that way. But it was Th?r?se who first called him "Tony", seeing it engraved in Brenda's handwriting in his cigarette case. "How funny," she said, "that was the name of the man who didn't marry the American girl at Madame de Supplice's" "; and after that they used each other's Christian names, to the great satisfaction of the other passengers, who had little to interest them on board except the flowering of this romance. "I can't believe this is the same ship as in those cold, rough days," said Th?r?se. They reached the first of the islands; a green belt of palm trees with wooded hills rising beyond them and a small town heaped up along the shores of a bay. Th?r?se and Tony went ashore and bathed. Th?r?se swam badly, with her head ridiculously erect out of the water. There was practically no bathing in Trinidad, she explained. They lay for some time on the firm, silver beach; then drove back into the town in the shaky, two-horse carriage he had hired, past ramshackle cabins from which little black boys ran out to beg or swing behind on the axle, in the white dust. There was nowhere in the town to dine so they returned to the ship at sundown. She lay out at some distance, but from where they stood after dinner, leaning over the rail, they could just hear, in the intervals when the winch was not working, the chatter and singing in the streets. Th?r?se put her arm through Tony's, but the decks were full of passengers and agents and swarthy little men with lists of cargo. There was no dancing that night. They went above on to the boat deck and Tony kissed her. Dr Messinger came on board by the last launch. He had met an acquaintance in the town. He had observed the growing friendship between Tony and Th?r?se with the strongest disapproval and told him of a friend of his who had been knifed in a back street of Smyrna, as a warning of what happened if one got mixed up with | bunk with the lifebelt and thought of the City. ...Carpet and canopy, tapestry and velvet, portcullis and bastion, waterfowl on the moat and kingcups along its margin, peacocks trailing their finery across the lawns; high overhead in a sky of sapphire and swansdown silver bells chiming in a turret of alabaster. Days of shadow and exhaustion, salt wind and wet mist, foghorn and the constant groan and creak of straining metal. Then they were clear of it, after the Azores. Awnings were out and passengers moved their chairs to windward. High noon and an even keel; the blue water lapping against the sides of the ship, rippling away behind her to the horizon; gramophones and deck tennis; bright arcs of flying fish (" "Look, Ernie, come quick, there's a shark." "That's not a shark, it's a dolphin." "Mr Brink said it was a porpoise." "There he is again. Oh, if I had my camera." "); clear, tranquil water and the regular turn and tread of the screw; there were many hands to caress the beagles as they went loping by. Mr Brink amid laughter suggested that he should exercise the racehorse, or, with a further burst of invention, the bull. Mr Brink sat at the purser's table with the cheery crowd. Dr Messinger left his cabin and appeared on deck and in the dining-saloon. So did the wife of the archdeacon; she was very much whiter than her husband. On Tony's other side at table sat a girl named Th?r?se de Vitr?. He had noticed her once or twice during the grey days, a forlorn figure almost lost among furs and cushions and rugs; a colourless little face with wide dark eyes. She said, "The last days have been terrible. I saw you walking about. How I envied you." "It ought to be calm all the way now," and inevitably, "Are you going far?" "Trinidad. That is my home... I tried to decide who you were from the passenger list." "Who was I?" "Well... someone called Colonel Strapper." "Do I look so old?" "Are colonels old? I didn't know. It's not a thing we have much in Trinidad. Now I know who you are because I asked the head steward. Do tell me about your exploring." "You'd better ask Doctor Messinger. He knows more about it than I do." "No, _you_ tell me." She was eighteen years old; small and dark, with a face that disappeared in a soft pointed chin so that attention was drawn to the grave eyes and the high forehead; she had not long outgrown her schoolgirl plumpness and she moved with an air of exultance, as though she had lately shed an encumbrance and was not yet fatigued by the other burdens that would succeed it. For two years she had been at school in Paris. "...Some of us used to keep lipstick and rouge secretly in our bedrooms and try it on at night. One girl called Antoinette came to Mass on Sunday wearing it. There was a terrible row with Madame de Supplice and she left after that term. It was awfully brave. We all envied her... But she was an ugly girl, always eating chocolates..."<|quote|>"...Now I am coming home to be married... No, I am not yet engaged, but you see there are so few young men I can marry. They must be Catholic and of an island family. It would not do to marry an official and go back to live in England. But it will be easy because I have no brothers or sisters and my father has one of the best houses in Trinidad. You must come and see it. It is a stone house, outside the town. My family came to Trinidad in the French Revolution. There are two or three other rich families and I shall marry into one of them. Our son will have the house. It will be easy..."</|quote|>She wore a little coat, of the kind that was then fashionable, and no ornament except a string of pearls. "...There was an American girl at Madame de Supplice's who was engaged. She had a ring with a big diamond but she could never wear it except in bed. Then one day she had a letter from her young man saying he was going to marry another girl. How she cried. We all read the letter and most of us cried too... But in Trinidad it will be quite easy." Tony told her about the expedition; of the Peruvian emigrants in the middle ages and their long caravan working through the mountains and forests, llamas packed with works of intricate craftsmanship; of the continual rumours percolating to the coast and luring adventurers up into the forests; of the route they would take up the rivers, then cutting through the bush along Indian trails and across untravelled country; of the stream they might strike higher up and how, Dr Messinger said, they would make woodskin canoes and take to the water again; how finally they would arrive under the walls of the city like the Vikings at Byzantium. "But of course," he added, "there may be nothing in it. It ought to be an interesting journey in any case." "How I wish I was a man," said Th?r?se de Vitr?. After dinner they danced to the music of an amplified gramophone and the girl drank lemon squash on the bench outside the deck bar, sucking it through two straws. * * * * * A week of blue water that grew clearer and more tranquil daily, of sun that grew warmer, radiating the ship and her passengers, filling them with good humour and ease; blue water that caught the sun in a thousand brilliant points, dazzling the eyes as they searched for porpoises and flying fish; clear blue water in the shallows revealing its bed of silver sand and smooth pebble, fathoms down; soft warm shade on deck under the awnings; the ship moved amid unbroken horizons on a vast blue disc of blue, sparkling with sunlight. Tony and Miss de Vitr? played quoits and shuffle-board; they threw rope rings into a bucket from a short distance. (" "We'll go in a small boat," Dr Messinger had said, "so as to escape all that hideous nonsense of deck games." ") Twice consecutively Tony won the sweepstake on the ship's run; the prize was eighteen shillings. He bought Miss de Vitr? a woollen rabbit at the barber's shop. It was unusual for Tony to use "Miss" in talking to anyone. Except Miss Tendril, he could think of no one he addressed in that way. But it was Th?r?se who first called him "Tony", seeing it engraved in Brenda's handwriting in his cigarette case. "How funny," she said, "that was the name of the man who didn't marry the American girl at Madame de Supplice's" "; and after that they used each other's Christian names, to the great satisfaction of the other passengers, who had little to interest them on board except | A Handful Of Dust |
"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it." | Mother | respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able | throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention | the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence | be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do | was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time." The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part. As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do you think it can be that has sent me so extraordinary a present? Do you think him worthy of the Princess Badroulboudour, my daughter?" The vizier, notwithstanding his envy and grief at seeing a stranger preferred to his son, durst not disguise his sentiments. It was too visible that Aladdin's present was more than sufficient to merit his being received into royal alliance; therefore, consulting his master's feelings, he returned this answer: "I am so far from having any thoughts that the person who has made your majesty so noble a present is unworthy of the honour you would do | was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time." The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part. As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do you think it can be that has sent me so extraordinary a present? Do you think him worthy of the Princess Badroulboudour, my daughter?" The vizier, notwithstanding his envy and grief at seeing a stranger preferred to his son, durst not disguise his sentiments. It was too visible that Aladdin's present was more than sufficient to merit his being received into royal alliance; therefore, consulting his master's feelings, he returned this answer: "I am so far from having any thoughts that the person who has made your majesty so noble a present is unworthy of the honour you would do him, that I should say he deserved much more, if I were not persuaded that the greatest treasure in the world ought not to be put in competition with the princess, your majesty's daughter." The sultan made no longer hesitation, nor thought of informing himself whether Aladdin was endowed with all the qualifications requisite in one who aspired to be his son-in-law. The sight alone of such immense riches, and Aladdin's quickness in satisfying his demand, without starting the least difficulty at the exorbitant conditions he had imposed, easily persuaded him that he could want nothing to render him accomplished, and such as he desired. Therefore, to send Aladdin's mother back with all the satisfaction she could desire, he said to her: "My good lady, go and tell your son that I wait with open arms to embrace him, and the more haste he makes to come and receive the princess, my daughter, from my hands, the greater pleasure he will do me." As soon as the tailor's widow had retired, overjoyed to see her son raised to such exalted fortune, the sultan put an end to the audience; and rising from his throne, ordered that the princess's eunuchs should | for her. But while I think of satisfying his request, go and get something for our dinner, and leave the rest to me." As soon as his mother was gone out, Aladdin took the lamp, and rubbing it, the genie appeared, and offered his service as usual. "The sultan," said Aladdin to him, "gives me the princess his daughter in marriage; but demands first, forty large trays of massy gold, full of the fruits of the garden from whence I took this lamp; and these he expects to have carried by as many black slaves, each preceded by a young handsome white slave, richly clothed. Go, and fetch me this present as soon as possible, that I may send it to him before the divan breaks up." The genie told him his command should be immediately obeyed, and disappeared. In a little time afterward the genie returned with forty black slaves, each bearing on his head a heavy tray of pure gold, full of pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and every sort of precious stones, all larger and more beautiful than those formerly presented to the sultan. Each tray was covered with silver tissue, embroidered with flowers of gold: these, together with the white slaves, quite filled the house, which was but a small one, the little court before it, and a small garden behind. The genie asked if he had any other commands, and Aladdin telling him that he wanted nothing further, he disappeared. When Aladdin's mother came from market, she was much surprised to see so many people and such vast riches. As soon as she had laid down her provisions, she was going to pull off her veil; but her son prevented her, and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time." The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part. As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do you think it can be that has sent me so extraordinary a present? Do you think him worthy of the Princess Badroulboudour, my daughter?" The vizier, notwithstanding his envy and grief at seeing a stranger preferred to his son, durst not disguise his sentiments. It was too visible that Aladdin's present was more than sufficient to merit his being received into royal alliance; therefore, consulting his master's feelings, he returned this answer: "I am so far from having any thoughts that the person who has made your majesty so noble a present is unworthy of the honour you would do him, that I should say he deserved much more, if I were not persuaded that the greatest treasure in the world ought not to be put in competition with the princess, your majesty's daughter." The sultan made no longer hesitation, nor thought of informing himself whether Aladdin was endowed with all the qualifications requisite in one who aspired to be his son-in-law. The sight alone of such immense riches, and Aladdin's quickness in satisfying his demand, without starting the least difficulty at the exorbitant conditions he had imposed, easily persuaded him that he could want nothing to render him accomplished, and such as he desired. Therefore, to send Aladdin's mother back with all the satisfaction she could desire, he said to her: "My good lady, go and tell your son that I wait with open arms to embrace him, and the more haste he makes to come and receive the princess, my daughter, from my hands, the greater pleasure he will do me." As soon as the tailor's widow had retired, overjoyed to see her son raised to such exalted fortune, the sultan put an end to the audience; and rising from his throne, ordered that the princess's eunuchs should come and carry the trays into their mistress's apartment, whither he went himself to examine them with her at his leisure. The fourscore slaves were conducted into the palace; and the sultan, telling the princess of their magnificent appearance, ordered them to be brought before her apartment, that she might see through the lattices that he had not exaggerated in his account of them. In the meantime, Aladdin's mother got home, and shewed in her countenance the good news she brought her son. "My son," said she to him, "you have now all the reason in the world to be pleased. The sultan, with the approbation of the whole court, has declared that you are worthy to possess the Princess Badroulboudour, and waits to embrace you, and conclude your marriage; therefore, you must think of making preparations for your interview, which may answer the high opinion he has formed of your person." Aladdin, enraptured with this news, made little reply, but retired to his chamber. There, after he had rubbed the lamp, which had never failed him, the obedient genie appeared. "Genie," said Aladdin, "I want to bathe immediately, and you must afterward provide me the richest and most magnificent habit ever worn by a monarch." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the genie rendered him invisible, and transported him into a bath of the finest marble, where he was undressed, without seeing by whom, in a magnificent and spacious hall. From the hall he was led to the bath, which was of a moderate heat, and he was there rubbed with various scented waters. After he had passed through several degrees of heat, he came out quite a different man from what he was before. His skin was clear white and red, his body lightsome and free; and when he returned into the hall, he found, instead of his own, a suit the magnificence of which astonished him. The genie helped him to dress, and when he had done, transported him back to his own chamber, where he asked him if he had any other commands? "Yes," answered Aladdin, "I expect you to bring me as soon as possible a charger that surpasses in beauty and goodness the best in the sultan's stables, with a saddle, bridle, and other caparisons worth a million of money. I want also twenty slaves, as richly clothed as those | and said: "Mother, let us lose no time; before the sultan and the divan rise, I would have you return to the palace with this present as the dowry demanded for the princess, that he may judge by my diligence of the ardent desire I have to procure myself the honour of this alliance." Without waiting for his mother's reply, Aladdin opened the street-door, and made the slaves walk out; each white slave followed by a black with a tray upon his head. When they were all out, the mother followed the last black slave; he shut the door, and then retired to his chamber, full of hopes that the sultan, after this present, which was such as he required, would receive him as his son-in-law. The first white slave who went out made all the people who were going by stop; and before they were all clear of the house, the streets were crowded with spectators, who ran to see so extraordinary and magnificent a procession. The dress of each slave was so rich, both for the stuff and the jewels, that those who were dealers in them valued each at no less than a million of money; besides, the neatness and propriety of the dress, the noble air, fine shape and proportion of each slave were unparalleled; their grave walk at an equal distance from each other, the lustre of the jewels, curiously set in their girdles of gold, and the egrets of precious stones in their turbans, put the spectators into such great admiration, that they could not avoid following them with their eyes as far as possible. As soon as the first of these slaves arrived at the palace gate, the porters formed themselves into order, taking him for a prince from the magnificence of his habit, and were going to kiss the hem of his garment; but the slave, who was instructed by the genie, prevented them, and said: "We are only slaves, our master will appear at a proper time." The first slave, followed by the rest, advanced into the second court, which was very spacious, and in which the sultan's household was ranged during the sitting of the divan. The magnificence of the officers, who stood at the head of their troops, was considerably eclipsed by the slaves who bore Aladdin's present, of which they themselves made a part. As the sultan, who had been informed of their approach to the palace, had given orders for them to be admitted, they went into the divan in regular order, one part filing to the right, and the other to the left. After they were all entered, and had formed a semicircle before the sultan's throne, the black slaves laid the golden trays on the carpet, prostrating themselves, and at the same time the white slaves did the same. When they rose, the black slaves uncovered the trays, and then all stood with their arms crossed over their breasts. In the meantime Aladdin's mother advanced to the foot of the throne, and having paid her respects, said to the sultan:<|quote|>"Sir, my son is sensible that this present, which he has sent your majesty, is much below the Princess Badroulboudour's worth; but hopes, nevertheless, that your majesty will accept of it."</|quote|>The sultan was not able to give the least attention to this compliment. The moment he cast his eyes on the forty trays, full of the most precious and beautiful jewels he had ever seen, and the fourscore slaves, who appeared by the elegance of their persons, and the magnificence of their dress, like so many princes, he was overwhelmed. Instead of answering the compliment of Aladdin's mother, he addressed himself to the grand vizier, who could not any more than the sultan comprehend from whence such a profusion of richness could come. "Well, vizier," said he aloud, "who do you think it can be that has sent me so extraordinary a present? Do you think him worthy of the Princess Badroulboudour, my daughter?" The vizier, notwithstanding his envy and grief at seeing a stranger preferred to his son, durst not disguise his sentiments. It was too visible that Aladdin's present was more than sufficient to merit his being received into royal alliance; therefore, consulting his master's feelings, he returned this answer: "I am so far from having any thoughts that the person who has made your majesty so noble a present is unworthy of the honour you would do him, that I should say he deserved much more, if I were not persuaded that the greatest treasure in the world ought not to be put in competition with the princess, your majesty's daughter." The sultan made no longer hesitation, nor thought of informing himself whether Aladdin was endowed with all the qualifications requisite in one who aspired to be his son-in-law. The sight alone of such immense riches, and Aladdin's quickness in satisfying his demand, without starting the least difficulty at the exorbitant conditions he had imposed, easily persuaded him that he could want nothing to render him accomplished, and such as he desired. Therefore, to send Aladdin's mother back with all the satisfaction she could desire, he said to her: "My good lady, go and tell your son that I wait with open arms to embrace him, and the more haste he makes to come and receive the princess, my daughter, from my hands, the greater pleasure he will do me." As soon as the tailor's widow had retired, overjoyed to see her son raised to such exalted fortune, the sultan put an end to the audience; and rising from his throne, ordered that the princess's eunuchs should come and carry the trays into their mistress's apartment, whither he went himself to examine them with her at his leisure. The fourscore slaves were conducted into the palace; and the sultan, telling the princess of their magnificent appearance, ordered them to be brought before her apartment, that she might see through the lattices that he had not exaggerated in his account of them. In the meantime, Aladdin's mother got home, | Arabian Nights (4) |
“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,” | Lord John | light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since | days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to | too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then | him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I | the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you | He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear | Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what he is: the very type and model of it, down to the ground. So you can imagine,” the young man said, “what he makes me feel--most of all when he’s so awfully good-natured to me. His being as ‘great’ as you say and yet backing me--such as I am!--doesn’t _that_ strike you as a good note for me, the best you could possibly require? For he really _would_ like what I propose to you.” She might have been noting, while she thought, that he had risen to ingenuity, to fineness, on the wings of his argument; under the effect of which her reply had the air of a concession. “Yes--he would like it.” “Then he _has_ spoken to you?” her suitor eagerly asked. “He hasn’t needed--he has ways of letting one know.” “Yes, yes, he has ways; all his own--like everything else he has. He’s wonderful.” She fully agreed. “He’s wonderful.” The tone of it appeared somehow to shorten at once for Lord John the rest of his approach to a conclusion. “So you do see your way?” “Ah--!” she said with a quick sad shrinkage. “I mean,” her visitor hastened to explain, “if he does put it to you as the very best idea he has for you. When | be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden.<|quote|>“They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,”</|quote|>he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you mean?” “Make money or make reputation--or even just make the time pass.” “Oh, what I have to look to in the way of a career?” If that was her meaning he could show after an instant that he didn’t fear it. “Well, your father, dear delightful man, has been so good as to give me to understand that he backs me for a decent deserving creature; and I’ve noticed, as you doubtless yourself have, that when Lord Theign backs a fellow----!” He left the obvious moral for her to take up--which she did, but all interrogatively. “The fellow at once comes in for something awfully good?” “I don’t in the least mind your laughing at me,” Lord John returned, “for when I put him the question of the lift he’d give me by speaking to you first he bade me simply remember the complete personal liberty in which he leaves you, and yet which doesn’t come--take my word!” said the young man sagely-- “from his being at all indifferent.” “No,” she answered-- “father isn’t indifferent. But father’s ‘great’” “Great indeed!” --her friend took it as with full comprehension. This appeared not to prevent, however, a second and more anxious thought. “Too great for _you?_” “Well, he makes me feel--even as his daughter--my extreme comparative smallness.” It was easy, Lord John indicated, to see what she meant “He’s a _grand seigneur_, and a serious one--that’s what | The Outcry |
he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee. | No speaker | "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, | face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. | he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I | her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. She sat down on Leonard s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I can t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I ve promised to marry you when I m of age, and that s enough. My word s my word. I ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I m twenty-one, | Mr. Cunningham?" "Yes." "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." "I ve been out to tea at a lady friend s." Her secret being at last given--to the world, and the name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was "On the shelf, On the shelf, Boys, boys, I m on the shelf," she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. She sat down on Leonard s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I can t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I ve promised to marry you when I m of age, and that s enough. My word s my word. I ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I m twenty-one, and I can t keep on being worried. I ve worries enough. It isn t likely I d throw you over, let alone my word, when I ve spent all this money. Besides, I m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me." "When s your birthday, Len?" "I ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose." Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to | back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face--the face does not signify. It was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was descending quicker than most women into the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it. "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!" "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," adding, "Oh, I am so tired." "You tired?" "Eh?" "I m tired," said he, hanging the boa up. "Oh, Len, I am so tired." "I ve been to that classical concert I told you about," said Leonard. "What s that?" "I came back as soon as it was over." "Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky. "Not that I ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few remarks." "What, not Mr. Cunningham?" "Yes." "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." "I ve been out to tea at a lady friend s." Her secret being at last given--to the world, and the name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was "On the shelf, On the shelf, Boys, boys, I m on the shelf," she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. She sat down on Leonard s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I can t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I ve promised to marry you when I m of age, and that s enough. My word s my word. I ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I m twenty-one, and I can t keep on being worried. I ve worries enough. It isn t likely I d throw you over, let alone my word, when I ve spent all this money. Besides, I m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me." "When s your birthday, Len?" "I ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose." Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly. "It really is too bad when a fellow isn t trusted. It makes one feel so wild, when I ve pretended to the people here that you re my wife--all right, all right, you SHALL be my wife--and I ve bought you the ring to wear, and I ve taken this flat furnished, and it s far more than I can afford, and yet you aren t content, and I ve also not told the truth when I ve written home." He lowered his voice. "He d stop it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: "My brother d stop it. I m going against the whole world, Jacky." "That s what I am, Jacky. I don t take any heed of what any one says. I just go straight forward, I | guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are. Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he was being done good to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin, and the Queen s Hall Concerts, and some pictures by Watts, he would one day push his head out of the grey waters and see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, a belief which may be right, but which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. It is the basis of much popular religion; in the domain of business it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes that "bit of luck" by which all successes and failures are explained. "If only I had a bit of luck, the whole thing would come straight... He s got a most magnificent place down at Streatham and a 20 h.p. Fiat, but then, mind you, he s had luck... I m sorry the wife s so late, but she never has any luck over catching trains." Leonard was superior to these people; he did believe in effort and in a steady preparation for the change that he desired. But of a heritage that may expand gradually, he had no conception; he hoped to come to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus. Those Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the trick; their hands were upon the ropes, once and for all. And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as well as stuffy. Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut up Margaret s card in the pages of Ruskin, and opened the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest to say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls--ribbons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and caught and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with a double row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, and might again be detected at the shoulder, through cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which germinated here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face--the face does not signify. It was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerous as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was descending quicker than most women into the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed it. "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!" "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," adding, "Oh, I am so tired." "You tired?" "Eh?" "I m tired," said he, hanging the boa up. "Oh, Len, I am so tired." "I ve been to that classical concert I told you about," said Leonard. "What s that?" "I came back as soon as it was over." "Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky. "Not that I ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few remarks." "What, not Mr. Cunningham?" "Yes." "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." "I ve been out to tea at a lady friend s." Her secret being at last given--to the world, and the name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was "On the shelf, On the shelf, Boys, boys, I m on the shelf," she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. She sat down on Leonard s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I can t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I ve promised to marry you when I m of age, and that s enough. My word s my word. I ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I m twenty-one, and I can t keep on being worried. I ve worries enough. It isn t likely I d throw you over, let alone my word, when I ve spent all this money. Besides, I m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me." "When s your birthday, Len?" "I ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose." Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly. "It really is too bad when a fellow isn t trusted. It makes one feel so wild, when I ve pretended to the people here that you re my wife--all right, all right, you SHALL be my wife--and I ve bought you the ring to wear, and I ve taken this flat furnished, and it s far more than I can afford, and yet you aren t content, and I ve also not told the truth when I ve written home." He lowered his voice. "He d stop it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: "My brother d stop it. I m going against the whole world, Jacky." "That s what I am, Jacky. I don t take any heed of what any one says. I just go straight forward, I do. That s always been my way. I m not one of your weak knock-kneed chaps. If a woman s in trouble, I don t leave her in the lurch. That s not my street. No, thank you." "I ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal about improving myself by means of Literature and Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when you came in I was reading Ruskin s Stones of Venice. I don t say this to boast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this afternoon." To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. When supper was ready--and not before--she emerged from the bedroom, saying: "But you do love me, don t you?" They began with a soup square, which Leonard had just dissolved in some hot water. It was followed by the tongue--a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the bottom--ending with another square dissolved in water (jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in the day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally looking at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else in her appearance corresponded, and which yet seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing meal. After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a few statements. She observed that her "likeness" had been broken. He found occasion to remark, for the second time, that he had come straight back home after the concert at Queen s Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road tramped to and fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to sing, "Hark, my soul, it is the Lord." "That tune fairly gives me the hump," said Leonard. Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she thought it a lovely tune. "No; I ll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for a minute." He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. He played badly and vulgarly, but the performance was not without its effect, for Jacky said she thought she d be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of | eyes confessed it. "What ho!" said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and helping it off with its boa. Jacky, in husky tones, replied, "What ho!" "Been out?" he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have been really, for the lady answered, "No," adding, "Oh, I am so tired." "You tired?" "Eh?" "I m tired," said he, hanging the boa up. "Oh, Len, I am so tired." "I ve been to that classical concert I told you about," said Leonard. "What s that?" "I came back as soon as it was over." "Any one been round to our place?" asked Jacky. "Not that I ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few remarks." "What, not Mr. Cunningham?" "Yes." "Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham." "Yes. Mr. Cunningham." "I ve been out to tea at a lady friend s." Her secret being at last given--to the world, and the name of the lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and now that she was "On the shelf, On the shelf, Boys, boys, I m on the shelf," she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. She sat down on Leonard s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say anything. Then she said, "Is that a book you re reading?" and he said, "That s a book," and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, "Bookmarker." "Len--" "What is it?"<|quote|>he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of conversation when she sat upon his knee.</|quote|>"You do love me?" "Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!" "But you do love me, Len, don t you?" "Of course I do." A pause. The other remark was still due. "Len--" "Well? What is it?" "Len, you will make it all right?" "I can t have you ask me that again," said the boy, flaring up into a sudden passion. "I ve promised to marry you when I m of age, and that s enough. My word s my word. I ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I m twenty-one, and I can t keep on being worried. I ve worries enough. It isn t likely I d throw you over, let alone my word, when I ve spent all this money. Besides, I m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me." "When s your birthday, Len?" "I ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose." Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to complain bitterly. "It really is too bad when a fellow isn t trusted. It makes one feel so wild, when I ve pretended to the people here that you re my wife--all right, all right, you SHALL be my wife--and I ve bought you the ring to wear, and I ve taken this flat furnished, and it s far more than I can afford, and yet you aren t content, and I ve also not told the truth when I ve written home." He lowered his voice. "He d stop it." In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: "My brother d stop it. I m going against the whole world, Jacky." "That s what I am, Jacky. I don t take any heed of what any one says. I just go straight forward, I do. That s always been my way. I m not one of your weak knock-kneed chaps. If a woman s in trouble, I don t leave her in the lurch. That s not my street. No, thank you." "I ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal about improving myself by means of Literature | Howards End |
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