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"That Marquis of yours," | Alexis Ivanovitch | this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also | to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" | am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." | tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] | of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] Dear little Grandmother. "Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought you ought to know that." "Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been doing so a long while!" "You _know_ he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth did you pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause. "I _knew_ you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previous encounters with Astley while travelling. "He is | him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] Dear little Grandmother. "Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought you ought to know that." "Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been doing so a long while!" "You _know_ he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth did you pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause. "I _knew_ you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previous encounters with Astley while travelling. "He is very shy," I said, "and susceptible. Also, he is in love with you." "Yes, he _is_ in love with me," she replied. "And he is ten times richer than the Frenchman. In fact, what does the Frenchman possess? To me it seems at least doubtful that he possesses anything at all." "Oh, no, there is no doubt about it. He does possess some ch teau or other. Last night the General told me that for certain. _Now_ are you satisfied?" "Nevertheless, in your place I should marry the Englishman." "And why?" asked Polina. "Because, though the Frenchman is the handsomer of the two, he is also the baser; whereas the Englishman is not only a man of honour, but ten times the wealthier of the pair." "Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of the two," remarked Polina imperturbably. "Is that so?" I repeated. "Yes; absolutely." Polina was not at all pleased at my questions; I could see that she was doing her best to irritate me with the brusquerie of her answers. But I took no notice of this. "It amuses me to see you grow angry," she continued. "However, inasmuch as I allow you | I only cried the louder:" "Let me tell you that I am going to _spit_ into that coffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this very minute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself."" "What? While he is engaged with a Cardinal?" "screeched the sacristan, again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spread out his arms as though he would rather die than let me enter." Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian "Je suis h r tique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops and cardinals and monsignors, and the rest of them, meant nothing at all to me. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He looked at me with an air of infinite resentment. Then he snatched up my passport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passport had been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it," and I pulled out the document, and exhibited the Roman visa. "But" the General began. "What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself a heretic and a barbarian," remarked the Frenchman with a smile. "Cela n tait pas si b te." "But is _that_ how Russian subjects ought to be treated? Why, when they settle here they dare not utter even a word they are ready even to deny the fact that they are Russians! At all events, at my hotel in Paris I received far more attention from the company after I had told them about the fracas with the sacristan. A fat Polish nobleman, who had been the most offensive of all who were present at the table d h te, at once went upstairs, while some of the Frenchmen were simply disgusted when I told them that two years ago I had encountered a man at whom, in 1812, a French hero fired for the mere fun of discharging his musket. That man was then a boy of ten and his family are still residing in Moscow." "Impossible!" the Frenchman spluttered. "No French soldier would fire at a child!" "Nevertheless the incident was as I say," I replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] Dear little Grandmother. "Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought you ought to know that." "Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been doing so a long while!" "You _know_ he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth did you pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause. "I _knew_ you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previous encounters with Astley while travelling. "He is very shy," I said, "and susceptible. Also, he is in love with you." "Yes, he _is_ in love with me," she replied. "And he is ten times richer than the Frenchman. In fact, what does the Frenchman possess? To me it seems at least doubtful that he possesses anything at all." "Oh, no, there is no doubt about it. He does possess some ch teau or other. Last night the General told me that for certain. _Now_ are you satisfied?" "Nevertheless, in your place I should marry the Englishman." "And why?" asked Polina. "Because, though the Frenchman is the handsomer of the two, he is also the baser; whereas the Englishman is not only a man of honour, but ten times the wealthier of the pair." "Yes? But then the Frenchman is a marquis, and the cleverer of the two," remarked Polina imperturbably. "Is that so?" I repeated. "Yes; absolutely." Polina was not at all pleased at my questions; I could see that she was doing her best to irritate me with the brusquerie of her answers. But I took no notice of this. "It amuses me to see you grow angry," she continued. "However, inasmuch as I allow you to indulge in these questions and conjectures, you ought to pay me something for the privilege." "I consider that I have a perfect right to put these questions to you," was my calm retort; "for the reason that I am ready to pay for them, and also care little what becomes of me." Polina giggled. "Last time you told me when on the Shlangenberg that at a word from me you would be ready to jump down a thousand feet into the abyss. Some day I may remind you of that saying, in order to see if you will be as good as your word. Yes, you may depend upon it that I shall do so. I hate you because I have allowed you to go to such lengths, and I also hate you and still more because you are so necessary to me. For the time being I want you, so I must keep you." Then she made a movement to rise. Her tone had sounded very angry. Indeed, of late her talks with me had invariably ended on a note of temper and irritation yes, of real temper. "May I ask you who is this Mlle. Blanche?" I inquired (since I did not wish Polina to depart without an explanation). "You _know_ who she is just Mlle. Blanche. Nothing further has transpired. Probably she will soon be Madame General that is to say, if the rumours that Grandmamma is nearing her end should prove true. Mlle. Blanche, with her mother and her cousin, the Marquis, know very well that, as things now stand, we are ruined." "And is the General at last in love?" "That has nothing to do with it. Listen to me. Take these 700 florins, and go and play roulette with them. Win as much for me as you can, for I am badly in need of money." So saying, she called Nadia back to her side, and entered the Casino, where she joined the rest of our party. For myself, I took, in musing astonishment, the first path to the left. Something had seemed to strike my brain when she told me to go and play roulette. Strangely enough, that something had also seemed to make me hesitate, and to set me analysing my feelings with regard to her. In fact, during the two weeks of my absence I had felt far more at | replied. "A very respected ex-captain told me the story, and I myself could see the scar left on his cheek." The Frenchman then began chattering volubly, and the General supported him; but I recommended the former to read, for example, extracts from the memoirs of General Perovski, who, in 1812, was a prisoner in the hands of the French. Finally Maria Philipovna said something to interrupt the conversation. The General was furious with me for having started the altercation with the Frenchman. On the other hand, Mr. Astley seemed to take great pleasure in my brush with Monsieur, and, rising from the table, proposed that we should go and have a drink together. The same afternoon, at four o clock, I went to have my customary talk with Polina Alexandrovna; and, the talk soon extended to a stroll. We entered the Park, and approached the Casino, where Polina seated herself upon a bench near the fountain, and sent Nadia away to a little distance to play with some other children. Mischa also I dispatched to play by the fountain, and in this fashion we that is to say, Polina and myself contrived to find ourselves alone. Of course, we began by talking on business matters. Polina seemed furious when I handed her only 700 g lden, for she had thought to receive from Paris, as the proceeds of the pledging of her diamonds, at least 2000 g lden, or even more. "Come what may, I _must_ have money," she said. "And get it somehow I will otherwise I shall be ruined." I asked her what had happened during my absence. "Nothing; except that two pieces of news have reached us from St. Petersburg. In the first place, my grandmother is very ill, and unlikely to last another couple of days. We had this from Timothy Petrovitch himself, and he is a reliable person. Every moment we are expecting to receive news of the end." "All of you are on the tiptoe of expectation?" I queried. "Of course all of us, and every minute of the day. For a year-and-a-half now we have been looking for this." "Looking for it?" "Yes, looking for it. I am not her blood relation, you know I am merely the General s step-daughter. Yet I am certain that the old lady has remembered me in her will." "Yes, I believe that you _will_ come in for a good deal," I said with some assurance. "Yes, for she is fond of me. But how come you to think so?" I answered this question with another one.<|quote|>"That Marquis of yours,"</|quote|>I said, "is _he_ also familiar with your family secrets?" "And why are you yourself so interested in them?" was her retort as she eyed me with dry grimness. "Never mind. If I am not mistaken, the General has succeeded in borrowing money of the Marquis." "It may be so." "Is it likely that the Marquis would have lent the money if he had not known something or other about your grandmother? Did you notice, too, that three times during luncheon, when speaking of her, he called her La Baboulenka ?" [1]. "What loving, friendly behaviour, to be sure!" [1] Dear little Grandmother. "Yes, that is true. As soon as ever he learnt that I was likely to inherit something from her he began to pay me his addresses. I thought you ought to know that." "Then he has only just begun his courting? Why, I thought he had been doing so a long while!" "You _know_ he has not," retorted Polina angrily. "But where on earth did you pick up this Englishman?" She said this after a pause. "I _knew_ you would ask about him!" Whereupon I told her of my previous encounters with Astley while travelling. "He is very shy," I said, "and susceptible. Also, he is in love with you." | The Gambler |
"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:" | Miss Catherine Alan | censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I | will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her | Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner | England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that | went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. | Italy; the other was historical--but that she could not start till she had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them." Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration. "All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived." Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman. "I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--" Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who | resent it. Yet in their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have no conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other day:" 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I suffer over the children's edjucaishion. HI won't 'ave my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian what can't explain nothink!'" Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, having expected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who would have supposed that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that militant form? In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at last the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she extracted a gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise the initials "E. L." "That belongs to Lavish." said the clergyman. "A good fellow, Lavish, but I wish she'd start a pipe." "Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth. "Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as you suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, after her life's work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it more excusable." "What was that?" asked Lucy. Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It was a novel--and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel. It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them, and I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a little ink. She said:" 'Can I have a little ink, please?' "But you know what Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got tempted into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modern Italy; the other was historical--but that she could not start till she had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them." Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration. "All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived." Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman. "I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--" Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner. Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved. "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively. "Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course." "Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their level." Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun. "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver." Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say: "I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want | idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone, even if you do not approve of them." Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration. "All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived." Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman. "I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--" Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper: "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--" 'drummers' "was the word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did so:" 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' "and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said:" 'Tut! The early Victorians.' "Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said" : 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'<|quote|>"It was horrible speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice:"</|quote|>'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' "The woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said:" 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.' "Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers." "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned. "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:" 'I shall go alone.' "She went. At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy. "No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling." "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself. "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?" The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying: "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets." "Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice." Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, | A Room With A View |
said Edna, desiring to change the subject. | No speaker | very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It | for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard | small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he | the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to | friend. "Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert. Are you going down to bathe?" "Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the surf all summer," replied the woman, disagreeably. "I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago." "I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. "Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he | conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain. "I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me." "I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the unessential," said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than that your Bible tells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more than that." "Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna. She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend. "Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert. Are you going down to bathe?" "Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the surf all summer," replied the woman, disagreeably. "I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago." "I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. "Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket I don't remember what; and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while. It's about time he was getting another." "Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna. "Mariequita yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!" Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her. But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's | size and shape, the post-mark, the handwriting. She examined every detail of the outside before opening it. There were only a few lines, setting forth that he would leave the city that afternoon, that he had packed his trunk in good shape, that he was well, and sent her his love and begged to be affectionately remembered to all. There was no special message to Edna except a postscript saying that if Mrs. Pontellier desired to finish the book which he had been reading to her, his mother would find it in his room, among other books there on the table. Edna experienced a pang of jealousy because he had written to his mother rather than to her. Every one seemed to take for granted that she missed him. Even her husband, when he came down the Saturday following Robert's departure, expressed regret that he had gone. "How do you get on without him, Edna?" he asked. "It's very dull without him," she admitted. Mr. Pontellier had seen Robert in the city, and Edna asked him a dozen questions or more. Where had they met? On Carondelet Street, in the morning. They had gone "in" and had a drink and a cigar together. What had they talked about? Chiefly about his prospects in Mexico, which Mr. Pontellier thought were promising. How did he look? How did he seem grave, or gay, or how? Quite cheerful, and wholly taken up with the idea of his trip, which Mr. Pontellier found altogether natural in a young fellow about to seek fortune and adventure in a strange, queer country. Edna tapped her foot impatiently, and wondered why the children persisted in playing in the sun when they might be under the trees. She went down and led them out of the sun, scolding the quadroon for not being more attentive. It did not strike her as in the least grotesque that she should be making of Robert the object of conversation and leading her husband to speak of him. The sentiment which she entertained for Robert in no way resembled that which she felt for her husband, or had ever felt, or ever expected to feel. She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no one but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain. "I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me." "I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the unessential," said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than that your Bible tells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more than that." "Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna. She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend. "Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert. Are you going down to bathe?" "Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the surf all summer," replied the woman, disagreeably. "I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago." "I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. "Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket I don't remember what; and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while. It's about time he was getting another." "Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna. "Mariequita yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!" Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her. But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in her pocket. "When do you leave?" asked Edna. "Next Monday; and you?" "The following week," answered Edna, adding, "It has been a pleasant summer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle?" "Well," agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, "rather pleasant, if it hadn't been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins." XVII The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and windows. There were paintings, selected with judgment and discrimination, upon the walls. The cut glass, the silver, the heavy damask which daily appeared upon the table were the envy of many women whose husbands were less generous than Mr. Pontellier. Mr. Pontellier was very fond of walking about his house examining its various appointments and details, to see that nothing was amiss. He greatly valued his possessions, chiefly because they were his, and derived genuine pleasure from contemplating a painting, a statuette, a rare lace curtain no matter what after he had bought it and placed it among his household gods. On Tuesday afternoons Tuesday being Mrs. Pontellier's reception day there was a constant stream of callers women who came in carriages or in the street cars, or walked when the air was soft and distance permitted. A light-colored mulatto boy, in dress coat and bearing a diminutive silver tray for the reception of cards, admitted them. A maid, in white fluted cap, offered the callers liqueur, coffee, or chocolate, as they might desire. Mrs. Pontellier, attired in a handsome reception gown, remained in the drawing-room the entire afternoon receiving her visitors. Men sometimes called in the evening with their wives. This had been the programme which Mrs. Pontellier had religiously followed since her marriage, six years before. Certain evenings | but herself. Edna had once told Madame Ratignolle that she would never sacrifice herself for her children, or for any one. Then had followed a rather heated argument; the two women did not appear to understand each other or to be talking the same language. Edna tried to appease her friend, to explain. "I would give up the unessential; I would give my money, I would give my life for my children; but I wouldn't give myself. I can't make it more clear; it's only something which I am beginning to comprehend, which is revealing itself to me." "I don't know what you would call the essential, or what you mean by the unessential," said Madame Ratignolle, cheerfully; "but a woman who would give her life for her children could do no more than that your Bible tells you so. I'm sure I couldn't do more than that." "Oh, yes you could!" laughed Edna. She was not surprised at Mademoiselle Reisz's question the morning that lady, following her to the beach, tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she did not greatly miss her young friend. "Oh, good morning, Mademoiselle; is it you? Why, of course I miss Robert. Are you going down to bathe?" "Why should I go down to bathe at the very end of the season when I haven't been in the surf all summer," replied the woman, disagreeably. "I beg your pardon," offered Edna, in some embarrassment, for she should have remembered that Mademoiselle Reisz's avoidance of the water had furnished a theme for much pleasantry. Some among them thought it was on account of her false hair, or the dread of getting the violets wet, while others attributed it to the natural aversion for water sometimes believed to accompany the artistic temperament. Mademoiselle offered Edna some chocolates in a paper bag, which she took from her pocket, by way of showing that she bore no ill feeling. She habitually ate chocolates for their sustaining quality; they contained much nutriment in small compass, she said. They saved her from starvation, as Madame Lebrun's table was utterly impossible; and no one save so impertinent a woman as Madame Lebrun could think of offering such food to people and requiring them to pay for it. "She must feel very lonely without her son,"<|quote|>said Edna, desiring to change the subject.</|quote|>"Her favorite son, too. It must have been quite hard to let him go." Mademoiselle laughed maliciously. "Her favorite son! Oh, dear! Who could have been imposing such a tale upon you? Aline Lebrun lives for Victor, and for Victor alone. She has spoiled him into the worthless creature he is. She worships him and the ground he walks on. Robert is very well in a way, to give up all the money he can earn to the family, and keep the barest pittance for himself. Favorite son, indeed! I miss the poor fellow myself, my dear. I liked to see him and to hear him about the place the only Lebrun who is worth a pinch of salt. He comes to see me often in the city. I like to play to him. That Victor! hanging would be too good for him. It's a wonder Robert hasn't beaten him to death long ago." "I thought he had great patience with his brother," offered Edna, glad to be talking about Robert, no matter what was said. "Oh! he thrashed him well enough a year or two ago," said Mademoiselle. "It was about a Spanish girl, whom Victor considered that he had some sort of claim upon. He met Robert one day talking to the girl, or walking with her, or bathing with her, or carrying her basket I don't remember what; and he became so insulting and abusive that Robert gave him a thrashing on the spot that has kept him comparatively in order for a good while. It's about time he was getting another." "Was her name Mariequita?" asked Edna. "Mariequita yes, that was it; Mariequita. I had forgotten. Oh, she's a sly one, and a bad one, that Mariequita!" Edna looked down at Mademoiselle Reisz and wondered how she could have listened to her venom so long. For some reason she felt depressed, almost unhappy. She had not intended to go into the water; but she donned her bathing suit, and left Mademoiselle alone, seated under the shade of the children's tent. The water was growing cooler as the season advanced. Edna plunged and swam about with an abandon that thrilled and invigorated her. She remained a long time in the water, half hoping that Mademoiselle Reisz would not wait for her. But Mademoiselle waited. She was very amiable during the walk back, and raved much over Edna's appearance in her bathing suit. She talked about music. She hoped that Edna would go to see her in the city, and wrote her address with the stub of a pencil on a piece of card which she found in her pocket. "When do you leave?" asked Edna. "Next Monday; and you?" "The following week," answered Edna, adding, "It has been a pleasant summer, hasn't it, Mademoiselle?" "Well," agreed Mademoiselle Reisz, with a shrug, "rather pleasant, if it hadn't been for the mosquitoes and the Farival twins." XVII The Pontelliers possessed a very charming home on Esplanade Street in New Orleans. It was a large, double cottage, with a broad front veranda, whose round, fluted columns supported the sloping roof. The house was painted a dazzling white; the outside shutters, or jalousies, were green. In the yard, which was kept scrupulously neat, were flowers and plants of every description which flourishes in South Louisiana. Within doors the appointments were perfect after the conventional type. The softest carpets and rugs covered the floors; rich and tasteful draperies hung at doors and windows. There were | The Awakening |
"I am no match-maker, as you well know," | Lady Russell | and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much | exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the | would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of | her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, | delighted Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in | himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!" Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady Elliot" all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such | what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe. "Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste! Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you. But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What is her age? Forty?" "No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged." "But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked Elizabeth. "She sees nothing to blame in it," replied Anne; "on the contrary, she approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs Smith." "Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed Sir Walter. "Sir Henry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings! A poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs Smith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a name!" Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!" Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady Elliot" all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case was against Mr Elliot. Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character. That he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. She saw that there had been bad habits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed? Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped. Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too well with every body. He had spoken to her with some degree of openness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as agreeable as any body. Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to | people and all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a name!" Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head.<|quote|>"I am no match-maker, as you well know,"</|quote|>said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!" Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady Elliot" all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case was against Mr Elliot. Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could | Persuasion |
"And those green trousers." | Brett Ashley | isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes | somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I | were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary | were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't | saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your | not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is | followed Montoya up a flight and down the corridor. "He's in room number eight," Montoya explained. "He's getting dressed for the bull-fight." Montoya knocked on the door and opened it. It was a gloomy room with a little light coming in from the window on the narrow street. There were two beds separated by a monastic partition. The electric light was on. The boy stood very straight and unsmiling in his bull-fighting clothes. His jacket hung over the back of a chair. They were just finishing winding his sash. His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen. "You go to the bull-fight," he said in English. "You know English," I said, feeling like an idiot. "No," he answered, and smiled. One of three men who had been sitting on the beds came up and asked us if we spoke French. "Would you like me to interpret for you? Is there anything you would like to ask Pedro Romero?" We thanked him. What was there that you would like to ask? The boy was nineteen years old, alone except for his sword-handler, and the three hangers-on, and the bull-fight was to commence in twenty minutes. We wished him "Mucha suerte," shook hands, and went out. He was standing, straight and handsome and altogether by himself, alone in the room with the hangers-on as we shut the door. "He's a fine boy, don't you think so?" Montoya asked. "He's a good-looking kid," I said. "He looks like a torero," Montoya said. "He has the type." "He's a fine boy." "We'll see how he is in the ring," Montoya said. We found the big leather wine-bottle leaning against the wall in my room, took it and the field-glasses, locked the door, and went down-stairs. It was a good bull-light. Bill and I were very excited about Pedro Romero. Montoya was sitting about ten places away. After Romero had killed his first bull Montoya caught my eye and nodded his head. This was a real one. There had not been a real one for a long time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while you never notice anything disgusting." "It is a bit strong just at the start," Brett said. "There's a dreadful moment for me just when the bull starts for the horse." "The bulls were fine," Cohn said. "They were very good," Mike said. "I want to sit down below, next time." Brett drank from her glass of absinthe. "She wants to see the bull-fighters close by," Mike said. "They are something," Brett said. "That Romero lad is just a child." "He's a damned good-looking boy," I said. "When we were up in his room I never saw a better-looking kid." "How old do you suppose he is?" "Nineteen or twenty." "Just imagine it." The bull-fight on the second day was much better than on the first. Brett sat between Mike and me at the barrera, and Bill and Cohn went up above. Romero was the whole show. I do not think Brett saw any other bull-fighter. No one else did either, except the hard-shelled technicians. It was all Romero. There were two other matadors, but they did not count. I sat beside Brett and explained to Brett what it was all about. I told her about watching the bull, not the horse, when the bulls charged the picadors, and got her to watching the picador place the point of his pic so that she saw what it was all about, so that it became more something that was going on with a definite end, and less of a spectacle with unexplained horrors. I had her watch how Romero took the bull away from a fallen horse with his cape, and how he held him with the cape and turned him, smoothly and suavely, never wasting the bull. She saw how Romero avoided every brusque movement and saved his bulls for the last when he wanted them, not winded and discomposed but smoothly worn down. She saw how close Romero always worked to the bull, and I pointed out to her the tricks the other bull-fighters used to make it look as though they were working closely. She saw why she liked Romero's cape-work and why she did not like the others. Romero never made any contortions, always it was straight and pure and natural in line. The others twisted themselves like corkscrews, their elbows raised, and leaned against the flanks of the bull after his horns had passed, to give a faked look of danger. Afterward, all that was faked turned bad and gave an unpleasant feeling. Romero's bull-fighting gave real emotion, because he kept the absolute purity of line in his movements and always quietly and calmly let the horns pass him close each time. He did not have to emphasize their closeness. Brett saw how something that was beautiful done close to the bull was ridiculous if it were done a little way off. I | time. Of the other two matadors, one was very fair and the other was passable. But there was no comparison with Romero, although neither of his bulls was much. Several times during the bull-fight I looked up at Mike and Brett and Cohn, with the glasses. They seemed to be all right. Brett did not look upset. All three were leaning forward on the concrete railing in front of them. "Let me take the glasses," Bill said. "Does Cohn look bored?" I asked. "That kike!" Outside the ring, after the bull-fight was over, you could not move in the crowd. We could not make our way through but had to be moved with the whole thing, slowly, as a glacier, back to town. We had that disturbed emotional feeling that always comes after a bull-fight, and the feeling of elation that comes after a good bull-fight. The fiesta was going on. The drums pounded and the pipe music was shrill, and everywhere the flow of the crowd was broken by patches of dancers. The dancers were in a crowd, so you did not see the intricate play of the feet. All you saw was the heads and shoulders going up and down, up and down. Finally, we got out of the crowd and made for the caf . The waiter saved chairs for the others, and we each ordered an absinthe and watched the crowd in the square and the dancers. "What do you suppose that dance is?" Bill asked. "It's a sort of jota." "They're not all the same," Bill said. "They dance differently to all the different tunes." "It's swell dancing." In front of us on a clear part of the street a company of boys were dancing. The steps were very intricate and their faces were intent and concentrated. They all looked down while they danced. Their rope-soled shoes tapped and spatted on the pavement. The toes touched. The heels touched. The balls of the feet touched. Then the music broke wildly and the step was finished and they were all dancing on up the street. "Here come the gentry," Bill said. They were crossing the street "Hello, men," I said. "Hello, gents!" said Brett. "You saved us seats? How nice." "I say," Mike said, "that Romero what'shisname is somebody. Am I wrong?" "Oh, isn't he lovely," Brett said.<|quote|>"And those green trousers."</|quote|>"Brett never took her eyes off them." "I say, I must borrow your glasses to-morrow." "How did it go?" "Wonderfully! Simply perfect. I say, it is a spectacle!" "How about the horses?" "I couldn't help looking at them." "She couldn't take her eyes off them," Mike said. "She's an extraordinary wench." "They do have some rather awful things happen to them," Brett said. "I couldn't look away, though." "Did you feel all right?" "I didn't feel badly at all." "Robert Cohn did," Mike put in. "You were quite green, Robert." "The first horse did bother me," Cohn said. "You weren't bored, were you?" asked Bill. Cohn laughed. "No. I wasn't bored. I wish you'd forgive me that." "It's all right," Bill said, "so long as you weren't bored." "He didn't look bored," Mike said. "I thought he was going to be sick." "I never felt that bad. It was just for a minute." "I thought he was going to be sick. You weren't bored, were you, Robert?" "Let up on that, Mike. I said I was sorry I said it." "He was, you know. He was positively green." "Oh, shove it along, Michael." "You mustn't ever get bored at your first bull-fight, Robert," Mike said. "It might make such a mess." "Oh, shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "He said Brett was a sadist," Mike said. "Brett's not a sadist. She's just a lovely, healthy wench." "Are you a sadist, Brett?" I asked. "Hope not." "He said Brett was a sadist just because she has a good, healthy stomach." "Won't be healthy long." Bill got Mike started on something else than Cohn. The waiter brought the absinthe glasses. "Did you really like it?" Bill asked Cohn. "No, I can't say I liked it. I think it's a wonderful show." "Gad, yes! What a spectacle!" Brett said. "I wish they didn't have the horse part," Cohn said. "They're not important," Bill said. "After a while | The Sun Also Rises |
moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms. | No speaker | raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he | as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him | noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be | he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more." "I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip. "Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the | the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last. "But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead." The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling. "What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?" He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more." "I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip. "Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said. "It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last. A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her. All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and remote, and he could not think that there was | Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled with all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat. At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his ancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers. Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat. Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying some months back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great. Not all Gino s care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last. "But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead." The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling. "What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?" He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more." "I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip. "Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said. "It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last. A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her. All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was laid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and full of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw unimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but never in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking him lightly, for even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed fitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead with her lips. Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in the world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the example of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or banging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved. "That milk," said she, "need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and persuade Mr. Herriton to drink." Gino obeyed her, | propped his body against his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with pity and tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that both of them were safe at last. Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment it seemed that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence, remembering everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards the lamp. "Do what you like; but think first--" The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It broke against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark. Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spun round with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew what was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fight him, to kill him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door. It was open. He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs, he ran across the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down on the floor between the stove and the skirting-board. His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He even knew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now he was hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had not escaped down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and then a low growl like a dog s. Gino had broken his finger-nails against the stove. Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when it comes by accident or for our good--as it generally does in modern life--except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears. Philip s one thought was to get away from that room at whatever sacrifice of nobility or pride. Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the little tables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to where Philip lay and had him clean by the elbow. The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint, sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinioned against the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled with all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat. At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his ancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers. Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat. Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying some months back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great. Not all Gino s care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last. "But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead." The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling. "What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?" He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more." "I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip. "Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said. "It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last. A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her. All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was laid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and full of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw unimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but never in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking him lightly, for even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed fitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead with her lips. Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in the world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the example of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or banging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved. "That milk," said she, "need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and persuade Mr. Herriton to drink." Gino obeyed her, and carried the child s milk to Philip. And Philip obeyed also and drank. "Is there any left?" "A little," answered Gino. "Then finish it." For she was determined to use such remnants as lie about the world. "Will you not have some?" "I do not care for milk; finish it all." "Philip, have you had enough milk?" "Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all." He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm of pain, broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. "It does not matter," he told her. "It does not matter. It will never be wanted any more." Chapter 10 "He will have to marry her," said Philip. "I heard from him this morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back out. It would be expensive. I don t know how much he minds--not as much as we suppose, I think. At all events there s not a word of blame in the letter. I don t believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision of perfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at the funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son who had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to; he was so distressed not to make Harriet s acquaintance, and that he scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again." "Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott, "and give him my kindest regards." "Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals of business he would pull out Philip s life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small." And how Miss | great. Not all Gino s care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last. "But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead." The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling. "What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?" He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby s milk. "Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat him kindly." She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. "Help! help!"<|quote|>moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.</|quote|>"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me." Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here." "Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. "Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more." "I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip. "Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said. "It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last. A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her. All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was laid upon her breast. Her eyes were | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"I comprehend perfectly." | Hercule Poirot | are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only | explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have | at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John | its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent | to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to | plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief." He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. | This next little fact no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is tremendous!" "Y es" "Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: It is so small it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters." "I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not." "And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance." "What is that?" I asked. "You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night." I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task. "I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see" "You do not see? But it is of the first importance." "I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural." "Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural." He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me. "Now I am ready. We will proceed to the ch teau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, _mon ami_, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it. "_ a y est!_ Now, shall we start?" We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew. "So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief." He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely. "No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells always remember that blood tells." "Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. "_Eh voil une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort." After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope. On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. "Cocoa with I think rum in it." He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. "Ah, this is curious," said Poirot. "I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it." "You do not? Observe the lamp the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder." "Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it." "Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it." He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them a trick of his when he was agitated. "_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or which is far more serious because it did not contain strychnine!" I made no reply. I | wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?" He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said: "I do not mind telling you though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee." "Yes?" "Well, what time was the coffee served?" "About eight o'clock." "Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it." As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard. "This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"<|quote|>"I comprehend perfectly."</|quote|>"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon." "Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only." John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so. "You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?" "Yes. I met him." John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. "It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him." "That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. "Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see." "The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us." We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. [Illustration] Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. "What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like how do you say it? ah, yes, the stuck pig?" I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks. "Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it." He did so, on the round table by | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"You are laughing at me," | Don Lavington | to scratch the crew's backs."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>cried Don angrily. "Not a | a gentleman kep' aboard ship to scratch the crew's backs."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>cried Don angrily. "Not a bit of it, my lad. | 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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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 | butter. "There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." "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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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?" | 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. "There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." "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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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 | 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. "There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." "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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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 she's eating her breakfast?" Don sighed and went on eating. He was horribly low-spirited, but his youthful appetite once started, he felt the need of food, and kept on in silence, passing and receiving the cup till all was gone. "That job's done," said Jem, placing the jug on the plate, and the cup in the mouth of the jug. "Now then, I'm ready, Mas' Don. You said escape, didn't you, sir?" "Yes. What shall we do?" "Well, we can't go down that way, sir, because the trap-door's bolted." "There is the window, Jem." "Skylights, you mean, sir," said Jem, looking up at the sloping panes in the roof. "Well, let's have a look. Will you get a-top o' my shoulders, or shall I get a-top o' yourn?" "I couldn't bear you, Jem." "Then up you gets, my lad, like the tumblers do at the fair." It seemed easy enough to get up and stand on the sturdy fellow's shoulders, but upon putting it to the test, Don found it very hard, and after a couple of failures he gave up, and they stood together looking up at the sloping window, which was far | 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. "There you are, messmates; say your grace and fall to." "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."<|quote|>"You are laughing at me,"</|quote|>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 | Don Lavington |
"I've found the post, Mas' Don!" | Jem Wimble | touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him | out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and | arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened | the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's | suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we | and he pressed forward toward where he had parted from Jem, passing one hand along the pales, the other extended so as to touch his companion as soon as they were near. The rustling sound again close at hand; but he dare not speak, only creep on in the dense blackness, straining his eyes to see; and his ears to catch his companion's breath. "Ah!" Don uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for it was painful to be alone at such a time, and he had at last touched the strong sturdy arm which was slightly withdrawn, and then the hand gripped him firmly. Don remained motionless, listening for the danger which must be threatening, or else Jem would have spoken; but at last the silence became so irksome that the prisoner raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, | as brought us here." Don's heart sank, but he knew that his companion's words were those of truth, and after a little hesitation he touched Jem with his hand, and then began to crawl slowly across the open space toward the fence. He looked back to make sure that Jem was following, but the darkness was so thick now, that even at that short distance he could not see him. Just then a touch on his foot set him at rest, and he crept softly on, listening to the low muttering of the men at the gate, and wondering whether he could find the rough part of the fence to which Jem had directed his attention. As he crept on he began to wonder next whether the prisoners would miss them, and do or say anything to call the attention of the guard; but all remained still, save that the Maoris laughed aloud at something one of them had said. This gave him confidence, and ceasing his crawling movement, he rose to his hands and feet, and crept on all fours to the fence, where he rose now to an erect position, and began to feel about for the rough post. Jem was up and by him directly after. Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale he touched was smooth and regular, set, too, so close to the next that there was not the slightest chance of even a child creeping through. All at once there was a rustling sound on his left. "Jem has found it," he thought; and he pressed forward toward where he had parted from Jem, passing one hand along the pales, the other extended so as to touch his companion as soon as they were near. The rustling sound again close at hand; but he dare not speak, only creep on in the dense blackness, straining his eyes to see; and his ears to catch his companion's breath. "Ah!" Don uttered a sigh of satisfaction, for it was painful to be alone at such a time, and he had at last touched the strong sturdy arm which was slightly withdrawn, and then the hand gripped him firmly. Don remained motionless, listening for the danger which must be threatening, or else Jem would have spoken; but at last the silence became so irksome that the prisoner raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. Gone," came back, and then the chief said something rapidly in his own tongue. Don sighed, for he could not comprehend a word. "It's no good trying, Mas' Don," whispered Jem; "and if we don't try to get away, we mayn't have a chance to-morrow. Let's--Here it is. Quick! I've got it. You climb up first, get over the top, and hang by your hands, and wait till I come. We must both drop together, and then be off. Oh, if we could only make him understand. What a fool of a language his is." Don could not even then help thinking that Ngati might have said the same, but he did not lose a moment. Loosening his hold of the chiefs hand, he whispered,-- "Pakeha. Come." Then giving himself up to the guidance of Jem, his hands were placed upon a rough post, and he began to climb, Jem helping him, somewhat after the fashion in which he had once assisted him to reach the window. Then, almost noiselessly, he reached the top, climbed over with ease by the aid of the lashings, and getting a tight hold of the strong fibrous bands, he lowered himself down to await Jem's coming. Ngati was more intelligent than Don had expected, for directly after he felt two great warm hands placed under to support his bare feet. These were raised and lowered a little; and, seizing the opportunity, he let himself sink down, till Ngati placed his feet upon two broad shoulders, and then Don felt himself seized by the hips, and lifted to the ground. As this went on Don could feel the post he had climbed vibrating, and though he could not see, he could tell that Jem had mounted to the top. "Where are you?" whispered Jem. "Look out! Ngati will help you." Jem grasped the situation, and the chief caught his feet, lowering him slowly, when all at once something seemed to spring out of the darkness, knocking Don right over, and seizing Ngati. That it was one of the guards there could be no doubt, for the man raised the alarm, and held on to the prisoner he had made, Jem going down awkwardly in turn. He and Don could have fled at once, but they could not leave their New Zealand friend in the lurch; and as the struggle went on, Jem had literally to feel his way to Ngati's help, no easy task in the darkness when two men are struggling. At last he was successful, and got a grip of one of the combatants' throat; but a hoarse, "No, pakeha!" told him of his mistake. He rectified it directly, getting his arm round the neck of the guard, tightening his grasp, and with such good effect, that Ngati wrenched himself free, and directly after Don heard one heavy blow, followed by a groan. "My pakeha!" "Here!" whispered Don, as they heard the rapid beating of feet, shouts below, in the _pah_, and close at hand. Ngati seized Don's hand, and after stooping down, thrust a spear into it. Then, uttering a grunt, he placed another spear in Jem's hand, the spoils of their fallen enemy, and leaving him for a moment, he felt along the fence for his own weapon. He spoke no more, but by means of action made Don understand that he would go first, holding his spear at the trail, he grasping one end, Don the other. Jem was to do likewise, and thus linked together they would not be separated. All this took | raised his left hand to grasp Jem's wrist. But it was not Jem's wrist. It was bigger and stouter; and quick as thought Don ran his hand along the arm to force back the holder of his arm, when to his horror, he found that the limb had been thrust through one of the openings of the fence, and he was a prisoner to some fierce chief who had suspected the design to escape, held in so strong a grip, that had he dared to struggle to free himself, it would not have been possible to drag the fettered arm away. "Jem! Help!" was on his lips, but he uttered no cry, only breathlessly listened to a deep panting from the outer side of the _pah_. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. AFTER SUSPENSE. What would happen? A powerful savage had hold of him firmly, had caught him just as he was about to escape; and the next thing would be that he would feel a spear driven through the opening between the pales, and that spear would run him through and through. His first idea was to give warning of the danger, but he dared not call, and Jem was apparently beyond hearing of the rustling and panting noise which could still be heard. Directly after Don determined to wrest his arm away, and dart back into the darkness. But the hand which held him still gripped with a force which made this impossible; and in despair and dread he was about to fling himself down, when Jem came gliding up out of the darkness, and touched his cold, wet face.<|quote|>"I've found the post, Mas' Don!"</|quote|>he whispered. Don caught him with his disengaged hand, and placed Jem's against the arm which held him. For a few moments Jem seemed unable to grasp the situation, for nothing was visible. Then he placed his lips once more close to Don's ear. "Wait a moment till I've opened my knife." "No, no," whispered Don in a horrified tone. "It is too dreadful." "Then let's both try together, and wrench your arm away." A peculiar hissing sound came at that moment from the outside of the _pah_, and Don felt his arm jerked. "My pakeha! My pakeha!" "Why, it's Ngati!" whispered Don joyfully; and he laid his disengaged hand on the massive fist which held him. The grasp relaxed on the instant, and Don's hand was seized, and held firmly. "It's Ngati, Jem," whispered Don, "come to help us." "Good luck to him!" said Jem eagerly; and he felt for the chiefs great hand, to pat it, and grasp it in a friendly way. His grasp was returned, and then they listened as Ngati put his face to the opening, and whispered a few words, the only part of which they could understand being,-- "My pakeha. Come." "Yes; we want to come," whispered Don. "Tomati. | Don Lavington |
Vera Iosifovna answered for her, | No speaker | high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her | "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be | "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. | his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles | hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on. But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks. "Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him. Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said | manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on. But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks. "Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him. Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic tone: "Unhappy woman, die!" And every one roared with laughter. "It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street. He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing: "'Thy voice to me so languid and caressing....'" On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue after the six miles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could with pleasure have walked another twenty. "Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep. II Startsev kept meaning to go to the Turkins' again, but there was a great deal of work in the hospital, and he was unable to find free time. In this way more than a year passed in work and solitude. But one day a letter in a light blue envelope was brought him from the town. Vera Iosifovna had been suffering for some time from migraine, but now since Kitten frightened her every day by saying that she was going away to the Conservatoire, the attacks began to be more frequent. All the doctors of the town had been at the Turkins'; at last | jealous--he is an Othello; but we will try and behave so well that he will notice nothing." "Ah, you spoilt chicken!" Ivan Petrovitch muttered tenderly, and he kissed her on the forehead. "You have come just in the nick of time," he said, addressing the doctor again. "My better half has written a 'hugeous' novel, and she is going to read it aloud to-day." "Petit Jean," said Vera Iosifovna to her husband, "dites que l'on nous donne du thé." Startsev was introduced to Ekaterina Ivanovna, a girl of eighteen, very much like her mother, thin and pretty. Her expression was still childish and her figure was soft and slim; and her developed girlish bosom, healthy and beautiful, was suggestive of spring, real spring. Then they drank tea with jam, honey, and sweetmeats, and with very nice cakes, which melted in the mouth. As the evening came on, other visitors gradually arrived, and Ivan Petrovitch fixed his laughing eyes on each of them and said: "How do you do, if you please?" Then they all sat down in the drawing-room with very serious faces, and Vera Iosifovna read her novel. It began like this: "The frost was intense...." The windows were wide open; from the kitchen came the clatter of knives and the smell of fried onions.... It was comfortable in the soft deep arm-chair; the lights had such a friendly twinkle in the twilight of the drawing-room, and at the moment on a summer evening when sounds of voices and laughter floated in from the street and whiffs of lilac from the yard, it was difficult to grasp that the frost was intense, and that the setting sun was lighting with its chilly rays a solitary wayfarer on the snowy plain. Vera Iosifovna read how a beautiful young countess founded a school, a hospital, a library, in her village, and fell in love with a wandering artist; she read of what never happens in real life, and yet it was pleasant to listen--it was comfortable, and such agreeable, serene thoughts kept coming into the mind, one had no desire to get up. "Not badsome ..." Ivan Petrovitch said softly. And one of the visitors hearing, with his thoughts far away, said hardly audibly: "Yes ... truly...." One hour passed, another. In the town gardens close by a band was playing and a chorus was singing. When Vera Iosifovna shut her manuscript book, the company was silent for five minutes, listening to "Lutchina" being sung by the chorus, and the song gave what was not in the novel and is in real life. "Do you publish your stories in magazines?" Startsev asked Vera Iosifovna. "No," she answered. "I never publish. I write it and put it away in my cupboard. Why publish?" she explained. "We have enough to live on." And for some reason every one sighed. "And now, Kitten, you play something," Ivan Petrovitch said to his daughter. The lid of the piano was raised and the music lying ready was opened. Ekaterina Ivanovna sat down and banged on the piano with both hands, and then banged again with all her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on. But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks. "Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him. Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic tone: "Unhappy woman, die!" And every one roared with laughter. "It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street. He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; he walked all the way singing: "'Thy voice to me so languid and caressing....'" On going to bed, he felt not the slightest fatigue after the six miles' walk. On the contrary, he felt as though he could with pleasure have walked another twenty. "Not badsome," he thought, and laughed as he fell asleep. II Startsev kept meaning to go to the Turkins' again, but there was a great deal of work in the hospital, and he was unable to find free time. In this way more than a year passed in work and solitude. But one day a letter in a light blue envelope was brought him from the town. Vera Iosifovna had been suffering for some time from migraine, but now since Kitten frightened her every day by saying that she was going away to the Conservatoire, the attacks began to be more frequent. All the doctors of the town had been at the Turkins'; at last it was the district doctor's turn. Vera Iosifovna wrote him a touching letter in which she begged him to come and relieve her sufferings. Startsev went, and after that he began to be often, very often at the Turkins'.... He really did something for Vera Iosifovna, and she was already telling all her visitors that he was a wonderful and exceptional doctor. But it was not for the sake of her migraine that he visited the Turkins' now.... It was a holiday. Ekaterina Ivanovna finished her long, wearisome exercises on the piano. Then they sat a long time in the dining-room, drinking tea, and Ivan Petrovitch told some amusing story. Then there was a ring and he had to go into the hall to welcome a guest; Startsev took advantage of the momentary commotion, and whispered to Ekaterina Ivanovna in great agitation: "For God's sake, I entreat you, don't torment me; let us go into the garden!" She shrugged her shoulders, as though perplexed and not knowing what he wanted of her, but she got up and went. "You play the piano for three or four hours," he said, following her; "then you sit with your mother, and there is no possibility of speaking to you. Give me a quarter of an hour at least, I beseech you." Autumn was approaching, and it was quiet and melancholy in the old garden; the dark leaves lay thick in the walks. It was already beginning to get dark early. "I haven't seen you for a whole week," Startsev went on, "and if you only knew what suffering it is! Let us sit down. Listen to me." They had a favourite place in the garden; a seat under an old spreading maple. And now they sat down on this seat. "What do you want?" said Ekaterina Ivanovna drily, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I have not seen you for a whole week; I have not heard you for so long. I long passionately, I thirst for your voice. Speak." She fascinated him by her freshness, the naïve expression of her eyes and cheeks. Even in the way her dress hung on her, he saw something extraordinarily charming, touching in its simplicity and naïve grace; and at the same time, in spite of this naïveté, she seemed to him intelligent and developed beyond her years. He could talk with her about literature, about art, about | her might, and then again and again; her shoulders and bosom shook. She obstinately banged on the same notes, and it sounded as if she would not leave off until she had hammered the keys into the piano. The drawing-room was filled with the din; everything was resounding; the floor, the ceiling, the furniture.... Ekaterina Ivanovna was playing a difficult passage, interesting simply on account of its difficulty, long and monotonous, and Startsev, listening, pictured stones dropping down a steep hill and going on dropping, and he wished they would leave off dropping; and at the same time Ekaterina Ivanovna, rosy from the violent exercise, strong and vigorous, with a lock of hair falling over her forehead, attracted him very much. After the winter spent at Dyalizh among patients and peasants, to sit in a drawing-room, to watch this young, elegant, and, in all probability, pure creature, and to listen to these noisy, tedious but still cultured sounds, was so pleasant, so novel.... "Well, Kitten, you have never played that before," said Ivan Petrovitch, with tears in his eyes, when his daughter had finished and stood up. "Die, Denis; you won't write anything better." All flocked round her, congratulated her, expressed astonishment, declared that it was long since they had heard such music, and she listened in silence with a faint smile, and her whole figure was expressive of triumph. "Splendid, superb!" "Splendid," said Startsev, too, carried away by the general enthusiasm. "Where have you studied?" he asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "At the Conservatoire?" "No, I am only preparing for the Conservatoire, and till now have been working with Madame Zavlovsky." "Have you finished at the high school here?" "Oh, no,"<|quote|>Vera Iosifovna answered for her,</|quote|>"We have teachers for her at home; there might be bad influences at the high school or a boarding school, you know. While a young girl is growing up, she ought to be under no influence but her mother's." "All the same, I'm going to the Conservatoire," said Ekaterina Ivanovna. "No. Kitten loves her mamma. Kitten won't grieve papa and mamma." "No, I'm going, I'm going," said Ekaterina Ivanovna, with playful caprice and stamping her foot. And at supper it was Ivan Petrovitch who displayed his talents. Laughing only with his eyes, he told anecdotes, made epigrams, asked ridiculous riddles and answered them himself, talking the whole time in his extraordinary language, evolved in the course of prolonged practice in witticism and evidently now become a habit: "Badsome," "Hugeous," "Thank you most dumbly," and so on. But that was not all. When the guests, replete and satisfied, trooped into the hall, looking for their coats and sticks, there bustled about them the footman Pavlusha, or, as he was called in the family, Pava--a lad of fourteen with shaven head and chubby cheeks. "Come, Pava, perform!" Ivan Petrovitch said to him. Pava struck an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic tone: "Unhappy woman, die!" And every one roared with laughter. "It's entertaining," thought Startsev, as he went out into the street. He went to a restaurant and drank some beer, then set off to walk home to Dyalizh; | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4) |
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. | No speaker | voice. "May I?" "Come in."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"What's this?" he asked, pointing | spoke in a soft, subdued voice. "May I?" "Come in."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"What's this?" he asked, pointing to the basket. "I am | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 | place it was!" "I don't say she took the brooch," said Fedosya Vassilyevna, "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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? | 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," said Fedosya Vassilyevna, "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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I ... took it.... But, of course, I count on your discretion.... For God's sake, not a word, not half a hint to any one!" Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before. "And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she ... won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you know! It's all mine, and the brooch belonged to my mother, and ... it's all mine! And she took it, took possession of everything.... I can't go to law with her, you'll admit.... I beg you most earnestly, overlook it ... stay on. _Tout comprendre, tout pardonner._ Will you stay?" "No!" said Mashenka resolutely, beginning to tremble. "Let me alone, I entreat you!" "Well, God bless you!" sighed Nikolay Sergeitch, sitting down on the stool near the box. "I must own I like people who still can feel resentment, contempt, and so on. I could sit here forever and look at your indignant face.... So you won't stay, then? I understand.... It's bound to be so ... Yes, of course.... It's all right for you, but for me--wo-o-o-o!... I can't stir a step out of this cellar. I'd go off to one of our estates, but in every one of them there are some of my wife's rascals ... stewards, experts, damn them all! They mortgage and remortgage.... You mustn't catch fish, must keep off the grass, mustn't break the trees." "Nikolay Sergeitch!" his wife's voice called from the drawing-room. "Agnia, call your master!" "Then you won't stay?" asked Nikolay Sergeitch, getting up quickly and going towards the door. "You might as well stay, really. In the evenings I could come and have a talk with you. Eh? Stay! If you go, there won't be a human face left in the house. It's awful!" Nikolay Sergeitch's pale, exhausted face besought her, but Mashenka shook her head, and with a wave of his hand he went out. Half an hour later she was on her way. | 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," said Fedosya Vassilyevna, "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."<|quote|>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.</|quote|>"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 won't tell the priest on my deathbed?" Mashenka made no answer. "I took my wife's brooch," Nikolay Sergeitch said quickly. "Is that enough now? Are you satisfied? Yes, I ... took it.... But, of course, I count on your discretion.... For God's sake, not a word, not half a hint to any one!" Mashenka, amazed and frightened, went on packing; she snatched her things, crumpled them up, and thrust them anyhow into the box and the basket. Now, after this candid avowal on the part of Nikolay Sergeitch, she could not remain another minute, and could not understand how she could have gone on living in the house before. "And it's nothing to wonder at," Nikolay Sergeitch went on after a pause. "It's an everyday story! I need money, and she ... won't give it to me. It was my father's money that bought this house and everything, you | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (3) |
"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth." | The Marchioness | Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver | with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But | head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, | winter with Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?" Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears." Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis." "Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the | a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. "What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in. The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand. "Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson." Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?" Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears." Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis." "Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?" "Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group in a general nod and slipping out of the room. "A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?" "I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely. "Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. | saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then, with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands. Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the "Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude. These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. "What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in. The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand. "Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson." Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?" Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears." Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis." "Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?" "Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group in a general nod and slipping out of the room. "A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?" "I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely. "Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start for the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message." Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's little travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for departure. "I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggested to the Marchioness, who replied with a smile: "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will join you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun." Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you to bring him with you?" "Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--I am sure she would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself." "That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate--but here is my card." He handed it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters: +---------------------------+ | Agathon Carver | | The Valley of Love | | Kittasquattamy, N. Y. | | "Tomorrow; yes; but early. I'm going out." The next day was a Sunday, and if she were "going out" on a Sunday evening it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. He felt a slight movement of annoyance, not so much at her going there (for he rather liked her going where she pleased in spite of the van der Luydens), but because it was the kind of house at which she was sure to meet Beaufort, where she must have known beforehand that she would meet him--and where she was probably going for that purpose. "Very well; tomorrow evening," he repeated, inwardly resolved that he would not go early, and that by reaching her door late he would either prevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers's, or else arrive after she had started--which, all things considered, would no doubt be the simplest solution. It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under the wisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour--but a singular restlessness had driven him to her door. He reflected, however, that Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings were not like a ball, and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency, usually went early. The one thing he had not counted on, in entering Madame Olenska's hall, was to find hats and overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to come early if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of the garments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment gave way to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest he had ever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assure himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One was a shaggy yellow ulster of "reach-me-down" cut, the other a very old and rusty cloak with a cape--something like what the French called a "Macfarlane." This garment, which appeared to be made for a person of prodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and its greenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive of prolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey scarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape. Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers in return with a fatalistic "Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-room door. The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then, with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands. Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the "Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude. These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. "What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in. The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand. "Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson." Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?" Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears." Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis." "Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?" "Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group in a general nod and slipping out of the room. "A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?" "I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely. "Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start for the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message." Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's little travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for departure. "I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggested to the Marchioness, who replied with a smile: "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will join you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun." Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you to bring him with you?" "Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--I am sure she would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself." "That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate--but here is my card." He handed it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters: +---------------------------+ | Agathon Carver | | The Valley of Love | | Kittasquattamy, N. Y. | +---------------------------+ Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that might have been either of regret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat. "Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she comes, I am so glad of this quiet moment with you." Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchioness continued, in her low sighing accents: "I know everything, dear Mr. Archer--my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise advice: your courageous firmness--thank heaven it was not too late!" The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there any one, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his intervention in her private affairs? "Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she asked me to." "Ah, but in doing it--in doing it you were the unconscious instrument of--of--what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?" cried the lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lids mysteriously. "Little did you know that at that very moment I was being appealed to: being approached, in fact--from the other side of the Atlantic!" She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard, and then, drawing her chair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to her lips, breathed behind it: "By the Count himself--my poor, mad, foolish Olenski; who asks only to take her back on her own terms." "Good God!" Archer exclaimed, springing up. "You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I don't defend poor Stanislas, though he has always called me his best friend. He does not defend himself--he casts himself at her feet: in my person." She tapped her emaciated bosom. "I have his letter here." "A letter?--Has Madame Olenska seen it?" Archer stammered, his brain whirling with the shock of the announcement. The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly. "Time--time; I must have time. I know my Ellen--haughty, intractable; shall I say, just a shade unforgiving?" "But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; to go back into that hell--" "Ah, yes," the Marchioness acquiesced. "So she describes it--my sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may stoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up? Those roses there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in the open, in his matchless terraced gardens at | fatalistic "Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-room door. The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then, with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing. Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading, was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands. Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise, recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him, and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the "Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude. These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska usually sat. "What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato as Archer came in. The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady, advancing, held out her hand. "Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the Marchioness Manson." Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?" Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued: "Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett." "Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett said with his dry smile. The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly.<|quote|>"How do you know, Mr. Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."</|quote|>"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur. "But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears." Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our street. This house has been an oasis." "Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?" "Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group in a general nod and slipping out of the room. "A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO think him witty?" "I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely. "Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start for the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message." Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's little travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for departure. "I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggested to the Marchioness, who replied with a smile: "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will join you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun." Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you to bring him with you?" "Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--I am sure she would be too happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself." "That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate--but here is my card." He handed it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters: +---------------------------+ | Agathon Carver | | The Valley of Love | | Kittasquattamy, N. Y. | +---------------------------+ Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that might have been either of regret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat. "Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she comes, I am so glad of this quiet moment with you." Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchioness continued, in her low sighing accents: "I know everything, dear Mr. Archer--my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise advice: your courageous firmness--thank heaven it was not too late!" The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there any one, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his intervention in her private affairs? "Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she asked me to." "Ah, but in doing it--in doing it you were the unconscious instrument of--of--what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?" cried the lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lids mysteriously. "Little did you know | The Age Of Innocence |
"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!" | Jem Wimble | necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left | hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly | top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. | but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a | next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! | stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" | his heart felt lighter as he stood on Jem's shoulders, and sought another hold for his hands lower down. The wild, fluttering pulsation ceased, and he grew composed. "I'm rested now, Jem," said Don. "Of course you are, my lad. Well, then, now you can climb down aside me. 'Tarn't so much farther to the bottom." "Can you reach out far enough for me to come between you and the rock?" "Just you try, Mas' Don." By this time Don had found a fresh hold for his feet; and nerving himself, he descended slowly, Jem forcing himself out, so that there was enough room for any one to pass; but as Don cleared him, and got right below, the bush to which Jem clung with one hand came slowly out of the interstices of the stones, and but for the exercise of a large amount of muscular power and rigidity of will, he would have swung round and fallen headlong. "I'm all right now, Jem!" cried Don from below. "Glad of it, my lad," muttered Jem, "because I arn't." "Come along down now." "How, Mas' Don?" said Jem grimly. "The same way as I did." "Oh! All right; but the bush I held on by is gone." "Well take hold of another." "Just you get from under me, Mas' Don." "Why? What do you mean?" "I'm too heavy to ketch like a cricket ball. That's all, my lad." "Oh, Jem, don't say you are in danger." "Not I, my lad, if you don't want me to; but it is awk'ard. Stand clear," he shouted. "I'm coming down. No, I arn't," he said directly after, as he made a tremendous effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which he stood gave such plain intimation of coming out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There's two o' them birds coming to see what's the matter." "I can't leave you, Jem. You're of | effort to reach a tough stem below, failed, and then dropped and caught it, and swung first by one hand and then by two. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought I was gone." "You made my heart seem to jump into my mouth." "Did I, lad? Well, it was awk'ard. I was scared lest I should knock you off. Felt just as I did when the chain broke, and you could see the link opening, and a big sugar-hogshead threatening to come down. All right now, my lad. Let's get on down. Think we're birds' nesting, Mas' Don, and it'll be all right." Don had to nerve himself once more, and they steadily lowered themselves from tuft to tuft, and from stone to stone, with more confidence, till they were about thirty feet from the foot, when farther progress became impossible, for, in place of being perpendicular, the cliff face sloped inward for some distance before becoming perpendicular once more. "Well, I do call that stoopid," said Jem, as he stared helplessly at Don. "What are we going to do now?" "I don't know, Jem. If we had a bit of rope we could easily descend." "And if we'd got wings, Mas' Don, we might fly." "We must climb back, Jem, as--Look here, would these trees bear us?" "Not likely," said Jem, staring hard at a couple of young kauri pines, which grew up at the foot of the precipice, and whose fine pointed tops were within a few feet of where they clung. "But if we could reach them and get fast hold, they would bend and let us down." "They'd let us down," said Jem drily; "but I don't know 'bout bending." Don clung to the face of the rock, hesitating, and wondering whether by any possibility they could get down another way, and finding that it was absolutely hopeless, he made up his mind to act. "It is next to impossible to climb up, Jem," he said. "Yes, Mas' Don." "And we can't get down." "No, Mas' Don. We shall have to live here for a bit, only I don't know how we're going to eat and sleep." "Jem." "Yes, Mas' Don." "I'm going to jump into that tree." "No, Mas' Don, you mustn't risk it." "And if it breaks--" "Never mind about the tree breaking. What I don't like is, s'pose you break." "I shall go first, and you can try afterwards." "No, no, Mas' Don; let me try first." Don paid no heed to his words, but turned himself completely round, so that he held on, with his back to the stony wall, and his heels upon a couple of rough projections, in so perilous a position that Jem looked on aghast, afraid now to speak. In front of Don, about nine feet away, and the top level with his feet, was the tree of which he had spoken. As far as support was concerned, it was about as reasonable to trust to a tall fishing-rod; but it appeared to be the only chance, and Don hesitated no longer than was necessary to calculate his chances.<|quote|>"Don't do it, Mas' Don. It's impossible, and like chucking yourself away. Let's climb up again; it's the only chance; and if we can't get to the village in time, why, it arn't our fault. No, my lad, don't!"</|quote|>As the last words left his lips, Don stood perfectly upright, balancing himself for a few moments, and then, almost as if he were going to dive into the water, he extended his hands and sprang outward into space. Jem Wimble uttered a low groan. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. DON'S REPORT. In the case of a leap like that made by Don, there was no suspense for the looker on, for the whole affair seemed to be momentary. Jem saw him pass through the air and disappear in the mass of greenery with a loud rushing sound, which continued for a few moments, and then all was still. "He's killed; he's killed!" groaned Jem to himself; "and my Sally will say it was all my fault." He listened eagerly. "Mas' Don!" he shouted. "Hullo, Jem! I say, would you drop if you were me?" "Drop? Then you arn't killed?" "No, not yet. Would you drop?" "I don't know what you mean." "I'm hanging on to the end of that young tree, and it keeps going up and down like a spring, and it won't go any nearer than about twelve feet from the ground. Would you drop?" _Whish_! _Rush_! _Crash_! _Thud_! The young tree sprang up again, cleaving a way for itself through the thick growth, and standing nearly erect once more, ragged and sadly deprived of its elegant proportions, just as a dull sound announced Don's arrival on _terra firma_. "All right, Jem!" he cried. "Not hurt. Look here; spread your arms out well and catch tight round the tree as you jump at it. You'll slip down some distance and scratch yourself, but you can't hurt much." "I hear, Mas' Don," said Jem, drawing a long breath full of relief. "I'm a-coming. It's like taking physic," he added to himself; "but the sooner you takes it, the sooner it's down. Here goes! Say, Mas' Don, do you ketch hold o' the tree with your hands, or your arms and legs?" "All of them. Aim straight at the stem, and leap out boldly." "Oh, yes," grumbled Jem; "it's all very well, but I was never 'prenticed to this sort o' fun.--Below!" "A good bold jump, Jem. I'm out of the way." "Below then," said Jem again. "Yes, jump away. Quick!" But Jem did not jump. He distrusted the ability of the tree to bear his weight. "Why don't you jump?" "'Cause it seems like breaking my neck, which is white, to save those of them people in the village, which is black, Mas' Don." "But you will not break your neck if you are careful." "Oh, yes! I'll be careful, Mas' Don; don't you be 'fraid of that." "Well, come along. You're not nervous, are you, Jem?" "Yes, Mas' Don, reg'lar scared; but, below, once more. Here goes! Don't tell my Sally I was afraid if I do get broke." Possibly Jem would have hesitated longer, but the stump of the bush upon which | Don Lavington |
"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe." | Mr. Wells | certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a | the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. | turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any | the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will | an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?" "Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me | up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "_Sacr !_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?" "Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, | If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the most beastly headache." "Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the _mal de t te_." He jumped up and took her cup. "No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "_Sacr !_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?" "Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family we will say Miss Howard, for instance would you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may | affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so."<|quote|>"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."</|quote|>"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?" "Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"and there we were." | Helen | "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We | So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our | shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes | hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband? "Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." "Now, Helen, what did really happen?" "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine." "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline s a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all | in a state of extreme excitement. "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ll never guess. A woman s been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so." "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It s no one we know. I said," Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband? "Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." "Now, Helen, what did really happen?" "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine." "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline s a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn t seem the same--no, no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the missing article." "But how on earth--" "Don t begin how on earthing." I know what I know, "she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn t, and then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks | it is," he sneered. "What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven." "And I," said Tibby, "want civilisation without activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other place." "You needn t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. You can find it at Oxford." "Stupid--" "If I m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I ll even live in Oxford if you like--North Oxford. I ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account." "London, then." "I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there s no reason we shouldn t have a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course--Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me." As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement. "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ll never guess. A woman s been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so." "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It s no one we know. I said," Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband? "Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." "Now, Helen, what did really happen?" "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine." "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline s a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn t seem the same--no, no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the missing article." "But how on earth--" "Don t begin how on earthing." I know what I know, "she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn t, and then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline s a notty, notty man, and hasn t no business to go on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember--bags I." "Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting down her work. "I m not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn t it?" "I don t think so--she doesn t really mind. The admirable creature isn t capable of tragedy." "Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving to the window. "Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. Lanoline." "Was she pretty?" "Her figure may have been good once." The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, into nearer contact with | sister. I haven t any authority over you, and I don t want to have any. Just to put before you what I think the Truth. You see" "--she shook off the pince-nez to which she had recently taken--" "in a few years we shall be the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so much nicer than women." "Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?" "I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance." "Has nobody arst you?" "Only ninnies." "Do people ask Helen?" "Plentifully." "Tell me about them." "No." "Tell me about your ninnies, then." "They were men who had nothing better to do," said his sister, feeling that she was entitled to score this point. "So take warning; you must work, or else you must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, work if you d save your soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper and understanding, such men give me more pleasure than many who are better equipped, and I think it is because they have worked regularly and honestly." "Spare me the Wilcoxes," he moaned. "I shall not. They are the right sort." "Oh, goodness me, Meg--!" he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality. "Well, they re as near the right sort as you can imagine." "No, no--oh, no!" "I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny, but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells me--out to his duty." "Duty" always elicited a groan. "He doesn t want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly work--dull country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food... A nation that can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder England has become an Empire." "EMPIRE!" "I can t bother over results," said Margaret, a little sadly. "They are too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London--" "What it is," he sneered. "What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven." "And I," said Tibby, "want civilisation without activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other place." "You needn t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. You can find it at Oxford." "Stupid--" "If I m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I ll even live in Oxford if you like--North Oxford. I ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account." "London, then." "I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there s no reason we shouldn t have a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course--Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me." As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement. "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ll never guess. A woman s been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so." "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It s no one we know. I said," Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband? "Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." "Now, Helen, what did really happen?" "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine." "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline s a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn t seem the same--no, no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the missing article." "But how on earth--" "Don t begin how on earthing." I know what I know, "she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn t, and then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline s a notty, notty man, and hasn t no business to go on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember--bags I." "Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting down her work. "I m not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn t it?" "I don t think so--she doesn t really mind. The admirable creature isn t capable of tragedy." "Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving to the window. "Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. Lanoline." "Was she pretty?" "Her figure may have been good once." The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as these. "Tibby and I have again been wondering where we ll live next September," she said at last. "Tibby had better first wonder what he ll do," retorted Helen; and that topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they were going out to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had both decayed. CHAPTER XIV The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much from his card. He had come "about the lady yesterday." Thus much from Annie, who had shown him into the dining-room. "Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It s Mrs. Lanoline." Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young man, colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, and that haunt some streets of the city like accusing presences. One guessed him as the third generation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civilisation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands who have lost the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight, and the chest that might have broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the glory of the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted whether it humanised the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very well--the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he would address her. She was only unprepared for an example of | London bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London--" "What it is," he sneered. "What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven." "And I," said Tibby, "want civilisation without activity, which, I expect, is what we shall find in the other place." "You needn t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. You can find it at Oxford." "Stupid--" "If I m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I ll even live in Oxford if you like--North Oxford. I ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account." "London, then." "I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there s no reason we shouldn t have a house in the country and also a flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course--Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me." As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme excitement. "Oh, my dears, what do you think? You ll never guess. A woman s been here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so." "Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. "I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) It s no one we know. I said," Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? husband? "Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier." "Now, Helen, what did really happen?" "What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we began--very civilly." I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here. "No--how unjust one is. She said whom, not what. She got it perfectly. So I said," Name, please? "and she said," Lan, Miss,<|quote|>"and there we were."</|quote|>"Lan?" "Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline." "But what an extraordinary--" "I said, My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine." "I hope you were pleased," said Tibby. "Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. Lanoline s a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn t seem the same--no, no more did lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the missing article." "But how on earth--" "Don t begin how on earthing." I know what I know, "she kept repeating, not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn t, and then others again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline s a notty, notty man, and hasn t no business to go on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember--bags I." "Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting down her work. "I m not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, doesn t it?" "I don t think so--she doesn t really mind. The admirable creature isn t capable of tragedy." "Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving to the window. "Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. Lanoline." "Was she pretty?" "Her figure may have been good once." The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, into nearer contact with such | Howards End |
Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows. | No speaker | early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to | to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said | approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very | place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak | separate heap. That done, I left everything where it lay, and proceeded to pace the room with rapid strides as I lost myself in thought. Then I darted to the table once more, and began to recount the money; until all of a sudden, as though I had remembered something, I rushed to the door, and closed and double-locked it. Finally I came to a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive | murdered. With each step the fear increased until, in my terror, I almost started to run. Suddenly, as I issued from the Avenue, there burst upon me the lights of the hotel, sparkling with a myriad lamps! Yes, thanks be to God, I had reached home! Running up to my room, I flung open the door of it. Polina was still on the sofa, with a lighted candle in front of her, and her hands clasped. As I entered she stared at me in astonishment (for, at the moment, I must have presented a strange spectacle). All I did, however, was to halt before her, and fling upon the table my burden of wealth. XV I remember, too, how, without moving from her place, or changing her attitude, she gazed into my face. "I have won two hundred thousand francs!" cried I as I pulled out my last sheaf of bank-notes. The pile of paper currency occupied the whole table. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. Consequently, for a moment or two Polina escaped my mind. Then I set myself to arrange the pile in order, and to sort the notes, and to mass the gold in a separate heap. That done, I left everything where it lay, and proceeded to pace the room with rapid strides as I lost myself in thought. Then I darted to the table once more, and began to recount the money; until all of a sudden, as though I had remembered something, I rushed to the door, and closed and double-locked it. Finally I came to a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell | since the red was turning up for the fourteenth time! "Monsieur a gagn cent mille florins," a voice exclaimed beside me. I awoke to my senses. What? I had won a hundred thousand florins? If so, what more did I need to win? I grasped the banknotes, stuffed them into my pockets, raked in the gold without counting it, and started to leave the Casino. As I passed through the salons people smiled to see my bulging pockets and unsteady gait, for the weight which I was carrying must have amounted to half a pood! Several hands I saw stretched out in my direction, and as I passed I filled them with all the money that I could grasp in my own. At length two Jews stopped me near the exit. "You are a bold young fellow," one said, "but mind you depart early tomorrow as early as you can for if you do not you will lose everything that you have won." But I did not heed them. The Avenue was so dark that it was barely possible to distinguish one s hand before one s face, while the distance to the hotel was half a verst or so; but I feared neither pickpockets nor highwaymen. Indeed, never since my boyhood have I done that. Also, I cannot remember what I thought about on the way. I only felt a sort of fearful pleasure the pleasure of success, of conquest, of power (how can I best express it?). Likewise, before me there flitted the image of Polina; and I kept remembering, and reminding myself, that it was to _her_ I was going, that it was in _her_ presence I should soon be standing, that it was _she_ to whom I should soon be able to relate and show everything. Scarcely once did I recall what she had lately said to me, or the reason why I had left her, or all those varied sensations which I had been experiencing a bare hour and a half ago. No, those sensations seemed to be things of the past, to be things which had righted themselves and grown old, to be things concerning which we needed to trouble ourselves no longer, since, for us, life was about to begin anew. Yet I had just reached the end of the Avenue when there _did_ come upon me a fear of being robbed or murdered. With each step the fear increased until, in my terror, I almost started to run. Suddenly, as I issued from the Avenue, there burst upon me the lights of the hotel, sparkling with a myriad lamps! Yes, thanks be to God, I had reached home! Running up to my room, I flung open the door of it. Polina was still on the sofa, with a lighted candle in front of her, and her hands clasped. As I entered she stared at me in astonishment (for, at the moment, I must have presented a strange spectacle). All I did, however, was to halt before her, and fling upon the table my burden of wealth. XV I remember, too, how, without moving from her place, or changing her attitude, she gazed into my face. "I have won two hundred thousand francs!" cried I as I pulled out my last sheaf of bank-notes. The pile of paper currency occupied the whole table. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. Consequently, for a moment or two Polina escaped my mind. Then I set myself to arrange the pile in order, and to sort the notes, and to mass the gold in a separate heap. That done, I left everything where it lay, and proceeded to pace the room with rapid strides as I lost myself in thought. Then I darted to the table once more, and began to recount the money; until all of a sudden, as though I had remembered something, I rushed to the door, and closed and double-locked it. Finally I came to a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she noticed my ardent gaze, and smiled slightly. The next moment, for no apparent reason, she began to talk of Astley. She continued talking and talking about him, but I could not make out all she said more particularly when she was endeavouring to tell me of something or other which had happened recently. On the whole, she appeared to be laughing at Astley, for she kept repeating that he was waiting for her, and did I know whether, even at that moment, he was not standing beneath the window? "Yes, yes, he is there," she said. "Open the window, and see if he is not." She pushed me in that direction; yet, no sooner did I make a movement to obey her behest than she burst into laughter, and I remained beside her, and she embraced me. "Shall we go away tomorrow?" presently she asked, as though some disturbing thought had recurred to her recollection. "How would it be if we were to try and overtake Grandmamma? I think we should do so at Berlin. And what think you she would have to say to us when we caught her up, and her eyes first lit upon us? What, too, about Mr. Astley? _He_ would not leap from the Shlangenberg for my sake! No! Of that I am very sure!" and she laughed. "Do you know where he is going next year? He says he intends to go to the North Pole for scientific investigations, and has invited me to go with him! Ha, ha, ha! He also says that we Russians know nothing, can do nothing, without European help. But he is a good fellow all the same. For instance, he does not blame the General in the matter, but declares that Mlle. Blanche that love But no; I | I had reached home! Running up to my room, I flung open the door of it. Polina was still on the sofa, with a lighted candle in front of her, and her hands clasped. As I entered she stared at me in astonishment (for, at the moment, I must have presented a strange spectacle). All I did, however, was to halt before her, and fling upon the table my burden of wealth. XV I remember, too, how, without moving from her place, or changing her attitude, she gazed into my face. "I have won two hundred thousand francs!" cried I as I pulled out my last sheaf of bank-notes. The pile of paper currency occupied the whole table. I could not withdraw my eyes from it. Consequently, for a moment or two Polina escaped my mind. Then I set myself to arrange the pile in order, and to sort the notes, and to mass the gold in a separate heap. That done, I left everything where it lay, and proceeded to pace the room with rapid strides as I lost myself in thought. Then I darted to the table once more, and began to recount the money; until all of a sudden, as though I had remembered something, I rushed to the door, and closed and double-locked it. Finally I came to a meditative halt before my little trunk. "Shall I put the money there until tomorrow?" I asked, turning sharply round to Polina as the recollection of her returned to me. She was still in her old place still making not a sound. Yet her eyes had followed every one of my movements. Somehow in her face there was a strange expression an expression which I did not like. I think that I shall not be wrong if I say that it indicated sheer hatred. Impulsively I approached her. "Polina," I said, "here are twenty-five thousand florins fifty thousand francs, or more. Take them, and tomorrow throw them in De Griers face." She returned no answer. "Or, if you should prefer," I continued, "let me take them to him myself tomorrow yes, early tomorrow morning. Shall I?"<|quote|>Then all at once she burst out laughing, and laughed for a long while. With astonishment and a feeling of offence I gazed at her. Her laughter was too like the derisive merriment which she had so often indulged in of late merriment which had broken forth always at the time of my most passionate explanations. At length she ceased, and frowned at me from under her eyebrows.</|quote|>"I am _not_ going to take your money," she said contemptuously. "Why not?" I cried. "Why not, Polina?" "Because I am not in the habit of receiving money for nothing." "But I am offering it to you as a _friend_. In the same way I would offer you my very life." Upon this she threw me a long, questioning glance, as though she were seeking to probe me to the depths. "You are giving too much for me," she remarked with a smile. "The beloved of De Griers is not worth fifty thousand francs." "Oh Polina, how can you speak so?" I exclaimed reproachfully. "Am _I_ De Griers?" "You?" she cried with her eyes suddenly flashing. "Why, I _hate_ you! Yes, yes, I _hate_ you! I love you no more than I do De Griers." Then she buried her face in her hands, and relapsed into hysterics. I darted to her side. Somehow I had an intuition of something having happened to her which had nothing to do with myself. She was like a person temporarily insane. "Buy me, would you, would you? Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?" she gasped between her convulsive sobs. I clasped her in my arms, kissed her hands and feet, and fell upon my knees before her. Presently the hysterical fit passed away, and, laying her hands upon my shoulders, she gazed for a while into my face, as though trying to read it something I said to her, but it was clear that she did not hear it. Her face looked so dark and despondent that I began to fear for her reason. At length she drew me towards herself a trustful smile playing over her features; and then, as suddenly, she pushed me away again as she eyed me dimly. Finally she threw herself upon me in an embrace. "You love me?" she said. "_Do_ you? you who were willing even to quarrel with the Baron at my bidding?" Then she laughed laughed as though something dear, but laughable, had recurred to her memory. Yes, she laughed and wept at the same time. What was I to do? I was like a man in a fever. I remember that she began to say something to me though _what_ I do not know, since she spoke with a feverish lisp, as though she were trying to tell me something very quickly. At intervals, too, she would break off into the smile which I was beginning to dread. "No, no!" she kept repeating. "_You_ are my dear one; _you_ are the man I trust." Again she laid her hands upon my shoulders, and again she gazed at me as she reiterated: "You love me, you love me? Will you _always_ love me?" I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I seen her in this mood of humility and affection. True, the mood was the outcome of hysteria; but ! All of a sudden she | The Gambler |
Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of | No speaker | “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in | are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you | I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it | sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so | But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.” Jordan put her hand on my arm. “Won’t you come in, Nick?” “No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It’s only half-past nine,” she said. I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were | wild hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly. “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases. “I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.” “No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.” Jordan put her hand on my arm. “Won’t you come in, Nick?” “No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It’s only half-past nine,” she said. I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred | have your name. Look out now. I want to get his name.” Some words of this conversation must have reached Wilson, swaying in the office door, for suddenly a new theme found voice among his grasping cries: “You don’t have to tell me what kind of car it was! I know what kind of car it was!” Watching Tom, I saw the wad of muscle back of his shoulder tighten under his coat. He walked quickly over to Wilson and, standing in front of him, seized him firmly by the upper arms. “You’ve got to pull yourself together,” he said with soothing gruffness. Wilson’s eyes fell upon Tom; he started up on his tiptoes and then would have collapsed to his knees had not Tom held him upright. “Listen,” said Tom, shaking him a little. “I just got here a minute ago, from New York. I was bringing you that coupé we’ve been talking about. That yellow car I was driving this afternoon wasn’t mine—do you hear? I haven’t seen it all afternoon.” Only the negro and I were near enough to hear what he said, but the policeman caught something in the tone and looked over with truculent eyes. “What’s all that?” he demanded. “I’m a friend of his.” Tom turned his head but kept his hands firm on Wilson’s body. “He says he knows the car that did it … It was a yellow car.” Some dim impulse moved the policeman to look suspiciously at Tom. “And what colour’s your car?” “It’s a blue car, a coupé.” “We’ve come straight from New York,” I said. Someone who had been driving a little behind us confirmed this, and the policeman turned away. “Now, if you’ll let me have that name again correct—” Picking up Wilson like a doll, Tom carried him into the office, set him down in a chair, and came back. “If somebody’ll come here and sit with him,” he snapped authoritatively. He watched while the two men standing closest glanced at each other and went unwillingly into the room. Then Tom shut the door on them and came down the single step, his eyes avoiding the table. As he passed close to me he whispered: “Let’s get out.” Self-consciously, with his authoritative arms breaking the way, we pushed through the still gathering crowd, passing a hurried doctor, case in hand, who had been sent for in wild hope half an hour ago. Tom drove slowly until we were beyond the bend—then his foot came down hard, and the coupé raced along through the night. In a little while I heard a low husky sob, and saw that the tears were overflowing down his face. “The God damned coward!” he whimpered. “He didn’t even stop his car.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Buchanans’ house floated suddenly toward us through the dark rustling trees. Tom stopped beside the porch and looked up at the second floor, where two windows bloomed with light among the vines. “Daisy’s home,” he said. As we got out of the car he glanced at me and frowned slightly. “I ought to have dropped you in West Egg, Nick. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” A change had come over him, and he spoke gravely, and with decision. As we walked across the moonlight gravel to the porch he disposed of the situation in a few brisk phrases. “I’ll telephone for a taxi to take you home, and while you’re waiting you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.” “No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.” Jordan put her hand on my arm. “Won’t you come in, Nick?” “No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It’s only half-past nine,” she said. I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new point of view occurred to me. Suppose Tom found out that Daisy had been driving. He might think he saw a connection in it—he might think anything. I looked at the house; there were two or three bright windows downstairs and the pink glow from Daisy’s room on the ground floor. “You wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if there’s any sign of a commotion.” I walked back along the border of the lawn, traversed the gravel softly, and tiptoed up the veranda steps. The drawing-room curtains were open, and I saw that the room was empty. Crossing the porch where we had dined that June night three months before, I came to a small rectangle of light which I guessed was the pantry window. The blind was drawn, but I found a rift at the sill. Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, with a plate of cold fried chicken between them, and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her, and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement. They weren’t happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale—and yet they weren’t unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture, and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together. As I tiptoed from the porch I heard my taxi feeling its way along the dark road toward the house. Gatsby was waiting where I had left him in the drive. “Is it all quiet up there?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, it’s all quiet.” I hesitated. “You’d better come home and get some sleep.” He shook his head. “I want to wait here till Daisy goes to bed. Good night, old sport.” He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight—watching over nothing. VIII I couldn’t sleep all night; a foghorn was groaning incessantly on the Sound, and I tossed half-sick between grotesque reality and savage, frightening dreams. Toward dawn I heard a taxi go up Gatsby’s drive, and immediately I jumped out of bed and began to dress—I felt that I had something to | you and Jordan better go in the kitchen and have them get you some supper—if you want any.” He opened the door. “Come in.” “No, thanks. But I’d be glad if you’d order me the taxi. I’ll wait outside.” Jordan put her hand on my arm. “Won’t you come in, Nick?” “No, thanks.” I was feeling a little sick and I wanted to be alone. But Jordan lingered for a moment more. “It’s only half-past nine,” she said. I’d be damned if I’d go in; I’d had enough of all of them for one day, and suddenly that included Jordan too. She must have seen something of this in my expression, for she turned abruptly away and ran up the porch steps into the house. I sat down for a few minutes with my head in my hands, until I heard the phone taken up inside and the butler’s voice calling a taxi. Then I walked slowly down the drive away from the house, intending to wait by the gate. I hadn’t gone twenty yards when I heard my name and Gatsby stepped from between two bushes into the path. I must have felt pretty weird by that time, because I could think of nothing except the luminosity of his pink suit under the moon. “What are you doing?” I inquired. “Just standing here, old sport.”<|quote|>Somehow, that seemed a despicable occupation. For all I knew he was going to rob the house in a moment; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sinister faces, the faces of</|quote|>“Wolfshiem’s people,” behind him in the dark shrubbery. “Did you see any trouble on the road?” he asked after a minute. “Yes.” He hesitated. “Was she killed?” “Yes.” “I thought so; I told Daisy I thought so. It’s better that the shock should all come at once. She stood it pretty well.” He spoke as if Daisy’s reaction was the only thing that mattered. “I got to West Egg by a side road,” he went on, “and left the car in my garage. I don’t think anybody saw us, but of course I can’t be sure.” I disliked him so much by this time that I didn’t find it necessary to tell him he was wrong. “Who was the woman?” he inquired. “Her name was Wilson. Her husband owns the garage. How the devil did it happen?” “Well, I tried to swing the wheel—” He broke off, and suddenly I guessed at the truth. “Was Daisy driving?” “Yes,” he said after a moment, “but of course I’ll say I was. You see, when we left New York she was very nervous and she thought it would steady her to drive—and this woman rushed out at us just as we were passing a car coming the other way. It all happened in a minute, but it seemed to me that she wanted to speak to us, thought we were somebody she knew. Well, first Daisy turned away from the woman toward the other car, and then she lost her nerve and turned back. The second my hand reached the wheel I felt the shock—it must have killed her instantly.” “It ripped her open—” “Don’t tell me, old sport.” He winced. “Anyhow—Daisy stepped on it. I tried to make her stop, but she couldn’t, so I pulled on the emergency brake. Then she fell over into my lap and I drove on. “She’ll be all right tomorrow,” he said presently. “I’m just going to wait here and see if he tries to bother her about that unpleasantness this afternoon. She’s locked herself into her room, and if he tries any brutality she’s going to turn the light out and on again.” “He won’t touch her,” I said. “He’s not thinking about her.” “I don’t trust him, old sport.” “How long are you going to wait?” “All night, if necessary. Anyhow, till they all go to bed.” A new | The Great Gatsby |
"There are degrees of seriousness," | Gabriel Syme | serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never | "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly | by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, | sorry," replied Syme with gravity. "I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology," said Gregory very calmly. "No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, "you think me serious? You think me a _fl neur_ who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious." Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road. "Serious!" he cried. "Good Lord! is this street serious? | to resume our argument, but to end it for ever." The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. "Mr. Syme," he said, "this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before." "Indeed!" "Now I remember," resumed Gregory reflectively, "one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me." "I am very sorry," replied Syme with gravity. "I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology," said Gregory very calmly. "No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, "you think me serious? You think me a _fl neur_ who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious." Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road. "Serious!" he cried. "Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn't keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now | the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe. He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned. "I was waiting for you," said Gregory. "Might I have a moment's conversation?" "Certainly. About what?" asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder. Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. "About _this_ and _this_," he cried; "about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold." "All the same," replied Syme patiently, "just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree." Then after a pause he said, "But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?" "No," cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, "I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever." The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. "Mr. Syme," he said, "this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before." "Indeed!" "Now I remember," resumed Gregory reflectively, "one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me." "I am very sorry," replied Syme with gravity. "I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology," said Gregory very calmly. "No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, "you think me serious? You think me a _fl neur_ who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious." Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road. "Serious!" he cried. "Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn't keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?" "Oh," said Syme with a beaming smile, "we are all Catholics now." "Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return" "You will promise me in return?" inquired Syme, as the other paused. "I will promise you a very entertaining evening." Syme suddenly took off his hat. "Your offer," he said, "is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, | own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory's absurdity and of his safety. Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world. He stared and talked at the girl's red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe. He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned. "I was waiting for you," said Gregory. "Might I have a moment's conversation?" "Certainly. About what?" asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder. Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. "About _this_ and _this_," he cried; "about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold." "All the same," replied Syme patiently, "just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree." Then after a pause he said, "But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?" "No," cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, "I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever." The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. "Mr. Syme," he said, "this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before." "Indeed!" "Now I remember," resumed Gregory reflectively, "one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me." "I am very sorry," replied Syme with gravity. "I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology," said Gregory very calmly. "No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, "you think me serious? You think me a _fl neur_ who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious." Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road. "Serious!" he cried. "Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn't keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?" "Oh," said Syme with a beaming smile, "we are all Catholics now." "Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return" "You will promise me in return?" inquired Syme, as the other paused. "I will promise you a very entertaining evening." Syme suddenly took off his hat. "Your offer," he said, "is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?" "I think," said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, "that we will call a cab." He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town. CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME The cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference "Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise." To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said "Certainly, sir!" and went away apparently to get it. "What will you drink?" resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. "I shall only have a _cr me de menthe_ myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?" "Thank you!" said the motionless Syme. "You are very good." His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite. "Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!" he said to Gregory, smiling. "I don't often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way." "You are not asleep, I assure you," said Gregory. "You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be | mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe. He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned. "I was waiting for you," said Gregory. "Might I have a moment's conversation?" "Certainly. About what?" asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder. Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. "About _this_ and _this_," he cried; "about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold." "All the same," replied Syme patiently, "just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree." Then after a pause he said, "But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?" "No," cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, "I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever." The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile. "Mr. Syme," he said, "this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before." "Indeed!" "Now I remember," resumed Gregory reflectively, "one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me." "I am very sorry," replied Syme with gravity. "I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology," said Gregory very calmly. "No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to _prove_ to you that you were wrong in what you said." "In what I said?" "You said I was not serious about being an anarchist."<|quote|>"There are degrees of seriousness,"</|quote|>replied Syme. "I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth." Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully. "And in no other sense," he asked, "you think me serious? You think me a _fl neur_ who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious." Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road. "Serious!" he cried. "Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn't keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink." "Very well," said Gregory, his face darkening, "you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion." Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips. "You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?" "Oh," said Syme with a beaming smile, "we are all Catholics now." "Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return" "You will promise me in return?" inquired Syme, as the other paused. "I will promise you a very entertaining evening." Syme suddenly took off his hat. "Your offer," he said, "is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?" "I think," said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, "that we will call a cab." He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town. CHAPTER II. THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME The cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded. "Will you take a little supper?" asked Gregory politely. "The _p t de foie gras_ is not good here, but I can recommend the game." Syme received | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you" | Mrs. Jennings | to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) | one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns | person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty | so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of | written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on | "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the | towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon." Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL. "Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow." "You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most agreeable office" (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) "Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living it is about two hundred a-year were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness." What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words, "Colonel Brandon!" "Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all | the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."<|quote|>"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you"</|quote|>(seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I am sure I can t tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure." "Certainly, ma am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, | Sense And Sensibility |
"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?" | Fagin | as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to | Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. | Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be | at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair. "No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected." "Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with anger. "Don't tell me!" "But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be got over?" "Not a bit of it," replied Sikes. "Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women are, Bill," "No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down | my dear. Somebody will hear us." "Let 'em hear!" said Sikes; "I don't care." But as Mr. Sikes _did_ care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer. "There, there," said the Jew, coaxingly. "It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!" said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation. "Not at all," replied Sikes coldly. "Not to be done at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair. "No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected." "Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with anger. "Don't tell me!" "But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be got over?" "Not a bit of it," replied Sikes. "Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women are, Bill," "No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down there, and it's all of no use." "He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear," said the Jew. "So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other plant." The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up. "And yet," said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, "it's a sad thing, my dear, to | manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a "life-preserver" that hung over the chimney-piece. "There," said Sikes, smacking his lips. "Now I'm ready." "For business?" inquired the Jew. "For business," replied Sikes; "so say what you've got to say." "About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?" said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice. "Yes. Wot about it?" inquired Sikes. "Ah! you know what I mean, my dear," said the Jew. "He knows what I mean, Nancy; don't he?" "No, he don't," sneered Mr. Sikes. "Or he won't, and that's the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?" "Hush, Bill, hush!" said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; "somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us." "Let 'em hear!" said Sikes; "I don't care." But as Mr. Sikes _did_ care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer. "There, there," said the Jew, coaxingly. "It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!" said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation. "Not at all," replied Sikes coldly. "Not to be done at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair. "No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected." "Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with anger. "Don't tell me!" "But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be got over?" "Not a bit of it," replied Sikes. "Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women are, Bill," "No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down there, and it's all of no use." "He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear," said the Jew. "So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other plant." The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up. "And yet," said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, "it's a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it." "So it is," said Mr. Sikes. "Worse luck!" A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed. "Fagin," said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; "is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?" "Yes," said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself. "Is it a bargain?" inquired Sikes. "Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened. "Then," said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, "let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, Bill?" asked | down, you stupid brute! Don't you know the devil when he's got a great-coat on?" Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin's outer garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature to be. "Well!" said Sikes. "Well, my dear," replied the Jew. "Ah! Nancy." The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake. "It is cold, Nancy dear," said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. "It seems to go right through one," added the old man, touching his side. "It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart," said Mr. Sikes. "Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It's enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave." Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off. "Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill," replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it. "What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?" inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. "Ugh!" With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once. The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a "life-preserver" that hung over the chimney-piece. "There," said Sikes, smacking his lips. "Now I'm ready." "For business?" inquired the Jew. "For business," replied Sikes; "so say what you've got to say." "About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?" said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice. "Yes. Wot about it?" inquired Sikes. "Ah! you know what I mean, my dear," said the Jew. "He knows what I mean, Nancy; don't he?" "No, he don't," sneered Mr. Sikes. "Or he won't, and that's the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?" "Hush, Bill, hush!" said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; "somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us." "Let 'em hear!" said Sikes; "I don't care." But as Mr. Sikes _did_ care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer. "There, there," said the Jew, coaxingly. "It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!" said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation. "Not at all," replied Sikes coldly. "Not to be done at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair. "No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected." "Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with anger. "Don't tell me!" "But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be got over?" "Not a bit of it," replied Sikes. "Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women are, Bill," "No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down there, and it's all of no use." "He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear," said the Jew. "So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other plant." The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up. "And yet," said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, "it's a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it." "So it is," said Mr. Sikes. "Worse luck!" A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed. "Fagin," said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; "is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?" "Yes," said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself. "Is it a bargain?" inquired Sikes. "Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened. "Then," said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, "let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, Bill?" asked the Jew eagerly. "Why," whispered Sikes, "as you cross the lawn" "Yes?" said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it. "Umph!" cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. "Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you." "As you like, my dear, as you like" replied the Jew. "Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby's?" "None," said Sikes. "Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the second you must find us." "A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it's a panel, eh?" "Never mind wot it is!" replied Sikes. "I want a boy, and he musn't be a big 'un. Lord!" said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, "if I'd only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two." "No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!" "What now?" inquired Sikes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer. "You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly. "I tell you I do!" replied Sikes. "Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly, "Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me." The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the | glass after just setting his lips to it. "What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?" inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. "Ugh!" With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once. The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a "life-preserver" that hung over the chimney-piece. "There," said Sikes, smacking his lips. "Now I'm ready." "For business?" inquired the Jew. "For business," replied Sikes; "so say what you've got to say." "About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?" said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice. "Yes. Wot about it?" inquired Sikes. "Ah! you know what I mean, my dear," said the Jew. "He knows what I mean, Nancy; don't he?" "No, he don't," sneered Mr. Sikes. "Or he won't, and that's the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?" "Hush, Bill, hush!" said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; "somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us." "Let 'em hear!" said Sikes; "I don't care." But as Mr. Sikes _did_ care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer. "There, there," said the Jew, coaxingly. "It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!" said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation. "Not at all," replied Sikes coldly. "Not to be done at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair. "No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected." "Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with anger. "Don't tell me!" "But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line." "Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated:<|quote|>"that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"</|quote|>"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it." "But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women can't be got over?" "Not a bit of it," replied Sikes. "Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women are, Bill," "No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down there, and it's all of no use." "He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear," said the Jew. "So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other plant." The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up. "And yet," said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, "it's a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it." "So it is," said Mr. Sikes. "Worse luck!" A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed. "Fagin," said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; "is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?" "Yes," said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself. "Is it a bargain?" inquired Sikes. "Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened. "Then," said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, "let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly." "Which is that, | Oliver Twist |
"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire." | First Lieutenant | first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do | _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean | till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the | excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to | men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in their hair, while their dark, nearly naked bodies glistened in the sun like bronze. "Are they coming to attack us, Jem?" said Don, who began to feel a strange thrill of excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to come aboard." "How is it you speak good English?" "Why, what should an Englishman speak?" "Then you are not a savage?" "Now do I look like one?" cried the man indignantly. "Of course; I forgot--I'm an Englishman on a visit to the country, and I've adopted their customs, sir--that's all." "Oh, I see," said the lieutenant, laughing; "ornaments and all." "May they come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes; if they leave their arms." The man communicated this to the occupants of the boat, and there was a good deal of excited conversation for a time. "That fellow's a runaway convict for | What's cooking?" "That place where the steam is, Mas' Don. I say, you know what they do here? That's the place where they do it." "Do what?" "Cook people. That's the spot, safe." "Nonsense!" said Don laughing. "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don; but if them sort o' things is done here, I think we'd better stop on board." Just at that moment the captain, who was busy with his spyglass examining the place and looking for a snug anchorage, suddenly gave an order, which was passed on, and with the rapidity customary on board a man-of-war, the stout boarding nettings, ready for use on an emergency, were triced up to the lower rigging, so that before long the vessel, from its bulwarks high up toward the lower yards, presented the appearance of a cage. While this was going on, others of the men stood to their arms, guns were cast loose and loaded, and every precaution taken against a surprise. The reason for all this was that quite a fleet of long canoes, propelled by paddles, suddenly began to glide out from behind one of the islands, each canoe seeming to contain from eighty to a hundred men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in their hair, while their dark, nearly naked bodies glistened in the sun like bronze. "Are they coming to attack us, Jem?" said Don, who began to feel a strange thrill of excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to come aboard." "How is it you speak good English?" "Why, what should an Englishman speak?" "Then you are not a savage?" "Now do I look like one?" cried the man indignantly. "Of course; I forgot--I'm an Englishman on a visit to the country, and I've adopted their customs, sir--that's all." "Oh, I see," said the lieutenant, laughing; "ornaments and all." "May they come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes; if they leave their arms." The man communicated this to the occupants of the boat, and there was a good deal of excited conversation for a time. "That fellow's a runaway convict for certain, sir," said the lieutenant. "Shall we get him aboard, and keep him?" "No. Let him be. Perhaps he will prove very useful." "The chiefs say it isn't fair to ask them to come without their arms," said the tattooed Englishman. "How are they to know that you will not be treacherous?" "Tell them this is a king's ship, and if they behave themselves they have nothing to fear," said the captain. "Stop! Six of them can come aboard armed if they like. You can lead them and interpret." "I'll tell them, sir; but I won't come aboard, thank you. I'm a bit of a savage now, and the crew might make remarks, and we should quarrel." He turned to the savages, and the captain and lieutenant exchanged glances, while directly after the canoe was run alongside, and half-a-dozen of the people sprang up the side, and were admitted through the boarding netting to begin striding about the deck in the most fearless way. They were fine, herculean-looking fellows, broad-shouldered and handsome, and every man had his face tattooed in a curious scroll-like pattern, which ended on the sides of his nose. Their arms were spears and tomahawks, and two | to have grown calm. It was like entering a lovely lake; and as they went slowly on and on, it was to find that they were forging ahead in a perfect archipelago, with fresh beauties opening up each minute. The land was deliciously green, and cut up into valley, hill, and mountain. One island they were passing sent forth into the clear sunny air a cloud of silvery steam, which floated slowly away, like a white ensign spread to welcome the newcomers from a civilised land. At their distance from the shore it was impossible to make out the individual trees, but there seemed to be clumps of noble pines some distance in, and the valleys were made ornamental with some kind of feathery growth. "Well, all I've got to say, Mas' Don, is this here--Singpore arn't to be grumbled at, and China's all very well, only hot; but if you and me's going to say good-bye to sailoring, let's do it here." "That's exactly what I was thinking, Jem," replied Don. "Say, Mas' Don, p'r'aps it arn't for me, being a servant and you a young master, to make remarks." "Don't talk nonsense, Jem; we are both common sailors." "Well then, sir, as one sailor to another sailor, I says I wish you wouldn't get into bad habits." "I wish so too, Jem." "There you are again!" said Jem testily. "What do you mean?" "Why, so sure as I thinks something sensible and good, you always ketches me up and says you had thought it before." "Nonsense, Jem! Well, have it your way. I quite agree with you." "No, I won't, sir; you're master. Have it your way. I quite agree with you. Let's go ashore here." "If you can get the chance, Jem.--How lovely it looks!" "Lovely's nothing to it, sir. Mike used to brag about what he'd seen in foreign countries, but he never see anything to come up to this." "I don't think any one could see a more beautiful place, Jem." "But I don't like the look o' that, sir." "Of what?" "That there yonder. That smoke." "What, on that little island? No, Jem; it's steam." "Well, don't you know what that means?" "No." "Then I've got something at last as you arn't got first!" cried Jem excitedly, as he sheltered his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Yes; that's it's, sure. Cooking!" "Cooking? What's cooking?" "That place where the steam is, Mas' Don. I say, you know what they do here? That's the place where they do it." "Do what?" "Cook people. That's the spot, safe." "Nonsense!" said Don laughing. "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don; but if them sort o' things is done here, I think we'd better stop on board." Just at that moment the captain, who was busy with his spyglass examining the place and looking for a snug anchorage, suddenly gave an order, which was passed on, and with the rapidity customary on board a man-of-war, the stout boarding nettings, ready for use on an emergency, were triced up to the lower rigging, so that before long the vessel, from its bulwarks high up toward the lower yards, presented the appearance of a cage. While this was going on, others of the men stood to their arms, guns were cast loose and loaded, and every precaution taken against a surprise. The reason for all this was that quite a fleet of long canoes, propelled by paddles, suddenly began to glide out from behind one of the islands, each canoe seeming to contain from eighty to a hundred men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in their hair, while their dark, nearly naked bodies glistened in the sun like bronze. "Are they coming to attack us, Jem?" said Don, who began to feel a strange thrill of excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to come aboard." "How is it you speak good English?" "Why, what should an Englishman speak?" "Then you are not a savage?" "Now do I look like one?" cried the man indignantly. "Of course; I forgot--I'm an Englishman on a visit to the country, and I've adopted their customs, sir--that's all." "Oh, I see," said the lieutenant, laughing; "ornaments and all." "May they come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes; if they leave their arms." The man communicated this to the occupants of the boat, and there was a good deal of excited conversation for a time. "That fellow's a runaway convict for certain, sir," said the lieutenant. "Shall we get him aboard, and keep him?" "No. Let him be. Perhaps he will prove very useful." "The chiefs say it isn't fair to ask them to come without their arms," said the tattooed Englishman. "How are they to know that you will not be treacherous?" "Tell them this is a king's ship, and if they behave themselves they have nothing to fear," said the captain. "Stop! Six of them can come aboard armed if they like. You can lead them and interpret." "I'll tell them, sir; but I won't come aboard, thank you. I'm a bit of a savage now, and the crew might make remarks, and we should quarrel." He turned to the savages, and the captain and lieutenant exchanged glances, while directly after the canoe was run alongside, and half-a-dozen of the people sprang up the side, and were admitted through the boarding netting to begin striding about the deck in the most fearless way. They were fine, herculean-looking fellows, broad-shouldered and handsome, and every man had his face tattooed in a curious scroll-like pattern, which ended on the sides of his nose. Their arms were spears and tomahawks, and two carried by a stout thong to the wrist a curiously carved object, which looked like a model of a paddle in pale green stone, carefully polished, but which on closer inspection seemed to be a weapon for using at close quarters. As they paraded the deck, with their quick eyes grasping everything, they made no scruple about placing their faces close to those of the sailors, and then drawing themselves up with a conscious look of satisfaction and self-esteem, as they compared their physique with that of their visitors. One of them, a great fellow of about six feet three, and stout and muscular in proportion, stopped suddenly in front of Jem, at whom he seemed to frown, and turned to Don, upon whose chest he laid the back of his hand. "Pakeha," he said in a deep voice; "Ngati pakeha." "Tell him he's another, Mas' Don," said Jem. The savage turned fiercely upon Jem, gripping Don's arm the while. "Pakeha," he said; "Ngati pakeha. Maori pakeha. My pakeha!" Then to Don--"You my pakeha. Give me powder--gun." "Don't you wish you may get it, old chap?" said Jem. "Wants you to give him powder and gun." The savage nodded approval. "Yes," he said; "powder-gun--you give." A call from one of his companions summoned the savage away, and he joined them to partake of some rum and water, which the captain had had prepared on their behalf. "Won't you come up and have some rum?" said the lieutenant to the tattooed Englishman in the boat. "No, thank you; but you may send me down the bottle if you like, sir. Look here! Shall I show you where you can anchor?" The lieutenant glanced at his superior officer, and in answer to his nod turned to the man again. "Can you show us a safe anchorage?" "I can show you half-a-dozen, all safe," said the man. "When you like, I'll lead the way." "A boat shall follow you, and take soundings." The first cutter was manned with a well-armed crew, and the lieutenant stepped in--Don and Jem being two of the number. The tattooed Englishman shouted something to the men busy on the ship, and they unwillingly left the deck, slipped down into their canoe, and this led off, followed by the first cutter. "Give way, my lads!" said the lieutenant; "and mind this: there must be no straying off in any | excitedly, as he sheltered his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Yes; that's it's, sure. Cooking!" "Cooking? What's cooking?" "That place where the steam is, Mas' Don. I say, you know what they do here? That's the place where they do it." "Do what?" "Cook people. That's the spot, safe." "Nonsense!" said Don laughing. "Ah! You may call it nonsense, Mas' Don; but if them sort o' things is done here, I think we'd better stop on board." Just at that moment the captain, who was busy with his spyglass examining the place and looking for a snug anchorage, suddenly gave an order, which was passed on, and with the rapidity customary on board a man-of-war, the stout boarding nettings, ready for use on an emergency, were triced up to the lower rigging, so that before long the vessel, from its bulwarks high up toward the lower yards, presented the appearance of a cage. While this was going on, others of the men stood to their arms, guns were cast loose and loaded, and every precaution taken against a surprise. The reason for all this was that quite a fleet of long canoes, propelled by paddles, suddenly began to glide out from behind one of the islands, each canoe seeming to contain from eighty to a hundred men. The effect was beautiful, for the long, dark vessels, with their grotesque, quaintly carved prows and sterns, seemed to be like some strange living creatures working along paths of silver, so regularly went the paddles, turning the sea into lines of dazzling light. The men were armed with spears and tomahawks, and as they came nearer, some could be seen wearing black feathers tipped with white stuck in their hair, while their dark, nearly naked bodies glistened in the sun like bronze. "Are they coming to attack us, Jem?" said Don, who began to feel a strange thrill of excitement. "Dessay they'd like to, Mas' Don; but it strikes me they'd think twice about it. Why, we could sail right over those long thin boats of theirs, and send 'em all to the bottom." Just then there was an order from the deck, and more sail was taken in, till the ship hardly moved, as the canoes came dashing up, the men of the foremost singing a mournful kind of chorus as they paddled on. "Ship ahoy!" suddenly came from the first canoe. "What ship's that?" "His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Golden Danae_," shouted back the first lieutenant from the chains.<|quote|>"Tell your other boats to keep back, or we shall fire."</|quote|>"No, no, no: don't do that, sir! They don't mean fighting," came back from the boat; and a big savage, whose face was blue with tattooing, stood up in the canoe, and then turned and spoke to one of his companions, who rose and shouted to the occupants of the other canoes to cease paddling. "Speaks good English, sir," said the lieutenant to the captain. "Yes. Ask them what they want, and if it's peace." The lieutenant shouted this communication to the savage in the canoe. "Want, sir?" came back; "to trade with you for guns and powder, and to come aboard." "How is it you speak good English?" "Why, what should an Englishman speak?" "Then you are not a savage?" "Now do I look like one?" cried the man indignantly. "Of course; I forgot--I'm an Englishman on a visit to the country, and I've adopted their customs, sir--that's all." "Oh, I see," said the lieutenant, laughing; "ornaments and all." "May they come aboard, sir?" "Oh, yes; if they leave their arms." The man communicated this to the occupants of the boat, and there was a good deal of excited conversation for a time. "That fellow's a runaway convict for certain, sir," said the lieutenant. "Shall we get him aboard, and keep him?" "No. Let him be. Perhaps he will prove very useful." "The chiefs say it isn't fair to ask them to come without their arms," said the tattooed Englishman. "How are they to know that you will not be treacherous?" "Tell them this is a king's ship, and if they behave themselves they have nothing to fear," said the captain. "Stop! Six of them can come aboard armed if they like. You can lead them and interpret." "I'll tell them, sir; but I won't come aboard, thank you. I'm a bit of a savage now, and the crew might make remarks, and we should quarrel." He turned to the savages, and the captain and lieutenant exchanged glances, while directly after the canoe was run alongside, and half-a-dozen of the people sprang up the side, and were admitted through | Don Lavington |
"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?" | Piglet | "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"Then we all say '_Aha!_'" | managed to say very huskily: "And--Afterwards?" "How do you mean?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"Then we all say '_Aha!_'" "All three of us?" "Yes." | 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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 | the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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?" | ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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 | brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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 | before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh, who had been frowning very hard for some minutes, said: "_I_ make it fifteen." "What?" said Rabbit. "Fifteen." "Fifteen what?" "Your family." "What about them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it." "There's just one thing," said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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," said Rabbit. "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 | is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it." "There's just one thing," said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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?"<|quote|>"When Kanga _does_ Discover the Difference?"</|quote|>"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 | Winnie The Pooh |
Cassandra replied. | No speaker | think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I | too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It | side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly | books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never tell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, or metaphysics. "What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walked upstairs side by side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly shake their petals white, purple, or crimson in competition with the display in the garden beds, although these city flowers are merely so many doors flung wide in Bond Street and the neighborhood, inviting you to look at a picture, or hear a symphony, or merely crowd and crush yourself | "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think, Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!" Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above and disturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back, walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiously ordinary tone: "Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope I shall be able to come to-morrow." Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on the landing. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never tell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, or metaphysics. "What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walked upstairs side by side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly shake their petals white, purple, or crimson in competition with the display in the garden beds, although these city flowers are merely so many doors flung wide in Bond Street and the neighborhood, inviting you to look at a picture, or hear a symphony, or merely crowd and crush yourself among all sorts of vocal, excitable, brightly colored human beings. But, all the same, it is no mean rival to the quieter process of vegetable florescence. Whether or not there is a generous motive at the root, a desire to share and impart, or whether the animation is purely that of insensate fervor and friction, the effect, while it lasts, certainly encourages those who are young, and those who are ignorant, to think the world one great bazaar, with banners fluttering and divans heaped with spoils from every quarter of the globe for their delight. As Cassandra Otway went about | into a ground-floor room in case the sound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where she stood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Some one was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was William Rodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in his sleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. He came down very slowly, step by step, with one hand upon the banisters to guide himself. She thought he looked as if he were in some mood of high exaltation, which it made her uncomfortable to witness any longer unseen. She stepped into the hall. He gave a great start upon seeing her and stopped. "Katharine!" he exclaimed. "You ve been out?" he asked. "Yes.... Are they still up?" He did not answer, and walked into the ground-floor room through the door which stood open. "It s been more wonderful than I can tell you," he said, "I m incredibly happy" He was scarcely addressing her, and she said nothing. For a moment they stood at opposite sides of a table saying nothing. Then he asked her quickly, "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think, Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!" Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above and disturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back, walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiously ordinary tone: "Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope I shall be able to come to-morrow." Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on the landing. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never tell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, or metaphysics. "What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walked upstairs side by side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly shake their petals white, purple, or crimson in competition with the display in the garden beds, although these city flowers are merely so many doors flung wide in Bond Street and the neighborhood, inviting you to look at a picture, or hear a symphony, or merely crowd and crush yourself among all sorts of vocal, excitable, brightly colored human beings. But, all the same, it is no mean rival to the quieter process of vegetable florescence. Whether or not there is a generous motive at the root, a desire to share and impart, or whether the animation is purely that of insensate fervor and friction, the effect, while it lasts, certainly encourages those who are young, and those who are ignorant, to think the world one great bazaar, with banners fluttering and divans heaped with spoils from every quarter of the globe for their delight. As Cassandra Otway went about London provided with shillings that opened turnstiles, or more often with large white cards that disregarded turnstiles, the city seemed to her the most lavish and hospitable of hosts. After visiting the National Gallery, or Hertford House, or hearing Brahms or Beethoven at the Bechstein Hall, she would come back to find a new person awaiting her, in whose soul were imbedded some grains of the invaluable substance which she still called reality, and still believed that she could find. The Hilberys, as the saying is, "knew every one," and that arrogant claim was certainly upheld by the number of houses which, within a certain area, lit their lamps at night, opened their doors after 3 p. m., and admitted the Hilberys to their dining-rooms, say, once a month. An indefinable freedom and authority of manner, shared by most of the people who lived in these houses, seemed to indicate that whether it was a question of art, music, or government, they were well within the gates, and could smile indulgently at the vast mass of humanity which is forced to wait and struggle, and pay for entrance with common coin at the door. The gates opened instantly to admit | on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to your society remember," she added, having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon the rest of her words. Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her body up an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forcibly away from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She held on grimly, encouraging herself as though she were actually making some great physical effort in climbing a height. She was conscious that Mr. Basnett, sitting at the top of the stairs with his documents, offered her solid footing if she were capable of reaching it. The knowledge gave her a faint sense of exaltation. Mr. Basnett raised his eyes as she opened the door. "I ll go on where I left off," he said. "Stop me if you want anything explained." He had been re-reading the document, and making pencil notes in the margin while he waited, and he went on again as if there had been no interruption. Mary sat down among the flat cushions, lit another cigarette, and listened with a frown upon her face. Katharine leant back in the corner of the cab that carried her to Chelsea, conscious of fatigue, and conscious, too, of the sober and satisfactory nature of such industry as she had just witnessed. The thought of it composed and calmed her. When she reached home she let herself in as quietly as she could, in the hope that the household was already gone to bed. But her excursion had occupied less time than she thought, and she heard sounds of unmistakable liveliness upstairs. A door opened, and she drew herself into a ground-floor room in case the sound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where she stood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Some one was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was William Rodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in his sleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. He came down very slowly, step by step, with one hand upon the banisters to guide himself. She thought he looked as if he were in some mood of high exaltation, which it made her uncomfortable to witness any longer unseen. She stepped into the hall. He gave a great start upon seeing her and stopped. "Katharine!" he exclaimed. "You ve been out?" he asked. "Yes.... Are they still up?" He did not answer, and walked into the ground-floor room through the door which stood open. "It s been more wonderful than I can tell you," he said, "I m incredibly happy" He was scarcely addressing her, and she said nothing. For a moment they stood at opposite sides of a table saying nothing. Then he asked her quickly, "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think, Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!" Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above and disturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back, walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiously ordinary tone: "Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope I shall be able to come to-morrow." Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on the landing. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never tell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, or metaphysics. "What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walked upstairs side by side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly shake their petals white, purple, or crimson in competition with the display in the garden beds, although these city flowers are merely so many doors flung wide in Bond Street and the neighborhood, inviting you to look at a picture, or hear a symphony, or merely crowd and crush yourself among all sorts of vocal, excitable, brightly colored human beings. But, all the same, it is no mean rival to the quieter process of vegetable florescence. Whether or not there is a generous motive at the root, a desire to share and impart, or whether the animation is purely that of insensate fervor and friction, the effect, while it lasts, certainly encourages those who are young, and those who are ignorant, to think the world one great bazaar, with banners fluttering and divans heaped with spoils from every quarter of the globe for their delight. As Cassandra Otway went about London provided with shillings that opened turnstiles, or more often with large white cards that disregarded turnstiles, the city seemed to her the most lavish and hospitable of hosts. After visiting the National Gallery, or Hertford House, or hearing Brahms or Beethoven at the Bechstein Hall, she would come back to find a new person awaiting her, in whose soul were imbedded some grains of the invaluable substance which she still called reality, and still believed that she could find. The Hilberys, as the saying is, "knew every one," and that arrogant claim was certainly upheld by the number of houses which, within a certain area, lit their lamps at night, opened their doors after 3 p. m., and admitted the Hilberys to their dining-rooms, say, once a month. An indefinable freedom and authority of manner, shared by most of the people who lived in these houses, seemed to indicate that whether it was a question of art, music, or government, they were well within the gates, and could smile indulgently at the vast mass of humanity which is forced to wait and struggle, and pay for entrance with common coin at the door. The gates opened instantly to admit Cassandra. She was naturally critical of what went on inside, and inclined to quote what Henry would have said; but she often succeeded in contradicting Henry, in his absence, and invariably paid her partner at dinner, or the kind old lady who remembered her grandmother, the compliment of believing that there was meaning in what they said. For the sake of the light in her eager eyes, much crudity of expression and some untidiness of person were forgiven her. It was generally felt that, given a year or two of experience, introduced to good dressmakers, and preserved from bad influences, she would be an acquisition. Those elderly ladies, who sit on the edge of ballrooms sampling the stuff of humanity between finger and thumb and breathing so evenly that the necklaces, which rise and fall upon their breasts, seem to represent some elemental force, such as the waves upon the ocean of humanity, concluded, a little smilingly, that she would do. They meant that she would in all probability marry some young man whose mother they respected. William Rodney was fertile in suggestions. He knew of little galleries, and select concerts, and private performances, and somehow made time to meet Katharine and Cassandra, and to give them tea or dinner or supper in his rooms afterwards. Each one of her fourteen days thus promised to bear some bright illumination in its sober text. But Sunday approached. The day is usually dedicated to Nature. The weather was almost kindly enough for an expedition. But Cassandra rejected Hampton Court, Greenwich, Richmond, and Kew in favor of the Zoological Gardens. She had once trifled with the psychology of animals, and still knew something about inherited characteristics. On Sunday afternoon, therefore, Katharine, Cassandra, and William Rodney drove off to the Zoo. As their cab approached the entrance, Katharine bent forward and waved her hand to a young man who was walking rapidly in the same direction. "There s Ralph Denham!" she exclaimed. "I told him to meet us here," she added. She had even come provided with a ticket for him. William s objection that he would not be admitted was, therefore, silenced directly. But the way in which the two men greeted each other was significant of what was going to happen. As soon as they had admired the little birds in the large cage William and Cassandra lagged behind, and Ralph and | her excursion had occupied less time than she thought, and she heard sounds of unmistakable liveliness upstairs. A door opened, and she drew herself into a ground-floor room in case the sound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where she stood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Some one was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was William Rodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in his sleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. He came down very slowly, step by step, with one hand upon the banisters to guide himself. She thought he looked as if he were in some mood of high exaltation, which it made her uncomfortable to witness any longer unseen. She stepped into the hall. He gave a great start upon seeing her and stopped. "Katharine!" he exclaimed. "You ve been out?" he asked. "Yes.... Are they still up?" He did not answer, and walked into the ground-floor room through the door which stood open. "It s been more wonderful than I can tell you," he said, "I m incredibly happy" He was scarcely addressing her, and she said nothing. For a moment they stood at opposite sides of a table saying nothing. Then he asked her quickly, "But tell me, how did it seem to you? What did you think, Katharine? Is there a chance that she likes me? Tell me, Katharine!" Before she could answer a door opened on the landing above and disturbed them. It disturbed William excessively. He started back, walked rapidly into the hall, and said in a loud and ostentatiously ordinary tone: "Good night, Katharine. Go to bed now. I shall see you soon. I hope I shall be able to come to-morrow." Next moment he was gone. She went upstairs and found Cassandra on the landing. She held two or three books in her hand, and she was stooping to look at others in a little bookcase. She said that she could never tell which book she wanted to read in bed, poetry, biography, or metaphysics. "What do you read in bed, Katharine?" she asked, as they walked upstairs side by side. "Sometimes one thing sometimes another," said Katharine vaguely. Cassandra looked at her. "D you know, you re extraordinarily queer," she said. "Every one seems to me a little queer. Perhaps it s the effect of London." "Is William queer, too?" Katharine asked. "Well, I think he is a little,"<|quote|>Cassandra replied.</|quote|>"Queer, but very fascinating. I shall read Milton to-night. It s been one of the happiest nights of my life, Katharine," she added, looking with shy devotion at her cousin s beautiful face. CHAPTER XXVII London, in the first days of spring, has buds that open and flowers that suddenly shake their petals white, purple, or crimson in competition with the display in the garden beds, although these city flowers are merely so many doors flung wide in Bond Street and the neighborhood, inviting you to look at a picture, or hear a symphony, or merely crowd and crush yourself among all sorts of vocal, excitable, brightly colored human beings. But, all the same, it is no mean rival to the quieter process of vegetable florescence. Whether or not there is a generous motive at the root, a desire to share and impart, or whether the animation is purely that of insensate fervor and friction, the effect, while it lasts, certainly encourages those who are young, and those who are ignorant, to think the world one great bazaar, with banners fluttering and divans heaped with spoils from every quarter of the globe for their delight. As Cassandra Otway went about London provided with shillings that opened turnstiles, or more often with large white cards that disregarded turnstiles, the city seemed to her the most lavish and hospitable of hosts. After visiting the National Gallery, or Hertford House, or hearing Brahms or Beethoven at the Bechstein Hall, she would come back to find a new person awaiting her, | Night And Day |
"A lady?" | Mr. Hastings | below, asking for Mr Hastings."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>I jumped up. Poirot followed | in. "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. | 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>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, | 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>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 | 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>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 | his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>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. | not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is" up to them' "as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?" "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes." "Exactly." He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table. "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?" I studied the proofs attentively. "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3" I paused for some time "there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's." "Overlapping the others?" "Yes." "You recognize them beyond fail?" "Oh, yes; they are identical." Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again. "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?" "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated." "Yes?" "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left." "Go on I am really excited." "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway. "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you." "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!" "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling. "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" she started ever so slightly "remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service." She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away. "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?" "Enchanted, madame." All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes. The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing. We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong. Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears. "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you" "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once." "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!" "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes. "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence Mr. John." Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes. CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later. Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail. I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have" "Jealousy?" I queried. "Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him." He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands. "Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!" Poirot grinned. "I know you did." "But John! My old friend John!" "Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason." "I must say I think you might have given me a hint." "Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend." I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future. I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted. "But, Poirot" I protested. "Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link" He shook his head gravely. "When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two. "Did you not suspect him at all?" "No, indeed." "Not after that fragment of conversation | Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster which sounds like the house that Jack built!" "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!" "Oh, yes, he did!" "Impossible! We were all together the whole time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony." "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical. "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously. "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer. "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this photograph?" "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me." "Then you knew what you were going to find?" "No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated." "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery." "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too." "What is that?" "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion." 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."<|quote|>"A lady?"</|quote|>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 | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"Then I say," | Miss Morstan | I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, | love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to | her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time | wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure | heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his | to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll | and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks. "I heard a cab drive up," she said. "I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?" "I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table and speaking jovially and boisterously, though my heart was heavy within me. "I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune." She glanced at the iron box. "Is that the treasure, then?" she asked, coolly enough. "Yes, this is the great Agra treasure. Half of it is yours and half is Thaddeus Sholto s. You will have a couple of hundred thousand each. Think of that! An annuity of ten thousand pounds. There will be few richer young ladies in England. Is it not glorious?" I think that I must have been rather overacting my delight, and that she detected a hollow ring in my congratulations, for I saw her eyebrows rise a little, and she glanced at me curiously. "If I have it," said she, "I owe it to you." "No, no," I answered, "not to me, but to my friend Sherlock Holmes. With all the will in the world, I could never have followed up a clue which has taxed even his analytical genius. As it was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I tell you that no living man has any right to it, unless it is three men who are in the Andaman convict-barracks and myself. I know now that I cannot have the use of it, and I know that they cannot. I have acted all through for them as much as for myself. It s been the sign of four with us always. Well I know that they would have had me do just what I have done, and throw the treasure into the Thames rather than let it go to kith or kin of Sholto or of Morstan. It was not to make them rich that we did for Achmet. You ll find the treasure where the key is, and where little Tonga is. When I saw that your launch must catch us, I put the loot away in a safe place. There are no rupees for you this journey." "You are deceiving us, Small," said Athelney Jones, sternly. "If you had wished to throw the treasure into the Thames it would have been easier for you to have thrown box and all." "Easier for me to throw, and easier for you to recover," he answered, with a shrewd, sidelong look. "The man that was clever enough to hunt me down is clever enough to pick an iron box from the bottom of a river. Now that they are scattered over five miles or so, it may be a harder job. It went to my heart to do it, though. I was half mad when you came up with us. However, there s no good grieving over it. I ve had ups in my life, and I ve had downs, but I ve learned not to cry over spilled milk." "This is a very serious matter, Small," said the detective. "If you had helped justice, instead of thwarting it in this way, you would have had a better chance at your trial." "Justice!" snarled the ex-convict. "A pretty justice! Whose loot is this, if it is not ours? Where is the justice that I should give it up to those who have never earned it? Look how I have earned it! Twenty long years in that fever-ridden swamp, all day at work under the mangrove-tree, all night chained up in the filthy convict-huts, bitten by mosquitoes, racked with ague, bullied by every cursed black-faced policeman who loved to take it out of a white man. That was how I earned the Agra treasure; and you talk to me of justice because I cannot bear to feel that I have paid this price only that another may enjoy it! I would rather swing a score of times, or have one of Tonga s darts in my hide, than live in a convict s cell and feel that another man is at his ease in a palace with the money that should be mine." Small had dropped his mask of stoicism, and all this came out in a wild whirl of words, while his eyes blazed, and the handcuffs clanked together with the impassioned | was, we very nearly lost it at the last moment." "Pray sit down and tell me all about it, Dr. Watson," said she. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last, Holmes s new method of search, the discovery of the _Aurora_, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint. "It is nothing," she said, as I hastened to pour her out some water. "I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril." "That is all over," I answered. "It was nothing. I will tell you no more gloomy details. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. What could be brighter than that? I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it." "It would be of the greatest interest to me," she said. There was no eagerness in her voice, however. It had struck her, doubtless, that it might seem ungracious upon her part to be indifferent to a prize which had cost so much to win. "What a pretty box!" she said, stooping over it. "This is Indian work, I suppose?" "Yes; it is Benares metal-work." "And so heavy!" she exclaimed, trying to raise it. "The box alone must be of some value. Where is the key?" "Small threw it into the Thames," I answered. "I must borrow Mrs. Forrester s poker." There was in the front a thick and broad hasp, wrought in the image of a sitting Buddha. Under this I thrust the end of the poker and twisted it outward as a lever. The hasp sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty! No wonder that it was heavy. The iron-work was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewelry lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty. "The treasure is lost," said Miss Morstan, calmly. As I listened to the words and realised what they meant, a great shadow seemed to pass from my soul. I did not know how this Agra treasure had weighed me down, until now that it was finally removed. It was selfish, no doubt, disloyal, wrong, but I could realise nothing save that the golden barrier was gone from between us. "Thank God!" I ejaculated from my very heart. She looked at me with a quick, questioning smile. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "Because you are within my reach again," I said, taking her hand. She did not withdraw it. "Because I love you, Mary, as truly as ever a man loved a woman. Because this treasure, these riches, sealed my lips. Now that they are gone I can tell you how I love you. That is why I said," Thank God. "<|quote|>"Then I say,"</|quote|>Thank God, "too," she whispered, as I drew her to my side. Whoever had lost a treasure, I knew that night that I had gained one. Chapter XII The Strange Story of Jonathan Small A very patient man was that inspector in the cab, for it was a weary time before I rejoined him. His face clouded over when I showed him the empty box. "There goes the reward!" said he, gloomily. "Where there is no money there is no pay. This night s work would have been worth a tenner each to Sam Brown and me if the treasure had been there." "Mr. Thaddeus Sholto is a rich man," I said. "He will see that you are rewarded, treasure or no." The inspector shook his head despondently, however. "It s a bad job," he repeated; "and so Mr. Athelney Jones will think." His forecast proved to be correct, for the detective looked blank enough when I got to Baker Street and showed him the empty box. They had only just arrived, Holmes, the prisoner, and he, for they had changed their plans so far as to report themselves at a station upon the way. My companion lounged in his arm-chair with his usual listless expression, while Small sat stolidly opposite to him with his wooden leg cocked over his sound one. As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud. "This is your doing, Small," said Athelney Jones, angrily. "Yes, I have put it away where you shall never lay hand upon it," he cried, exultantly. "It is my treasure; and if I can t have the loot I ll take darned good care that no one else does. I | The Sign Of The Four |
"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?" | Mrs. Sparsit | good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of | little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited | Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little | a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as | morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming | which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to light you." "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age." "Egad, ma'am, so was I," said Bounderby, "with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement | or a political party, or a profession of faith. The better class of minds, however, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so exceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they sometimes lost themselves which they had rather frequently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent Debtors' Court. The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother's side a Powler, married this lady, being by the father's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old woman, with an inordinate appetite for butcher's meat, and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly noticeable for a slender body, weakly supported on two long slim props, and surmounted by no head worth mentioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle, but owed it all before he came into it, and spent it twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of his decease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), he did not leave his widow, from whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, in affluent circumstances. That bereaved lady, fifteen years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship, and partly to maintain herself, went out at a salary. And here she was now, in her elderly days, with the Coriolanian style of nose and the dense black eyebrows which had captivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bounderby's tea as he took his breakfast. If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he took about as a feature in his state-processions, he could not have made a greater flourish with her than he habitually did. Just as it belonged to his boastfulness to depreciate his own extraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs. Sparsit's. In the measure that he would not allow his own youth to have been attended by a single favourable circumstance, he brightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career with every possible advantage, and showered waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to light you." "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age." "Egad, ma'am, so was I," said Bounderby, "with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement of its Arcade used to make, I assure you. People like you, ma'am, accustomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have no idea _how_ hard a paving-stone is, without trying it. No, no, it's of no use my talking to _you_ about tumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers, and the West End of London, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and honourables." "I trust, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resignation, "it is not necessary that you should do anything of that kind. I hope I have learnt how to accommodate myself to the changes of life. If I have acquired an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment." "Well, ma'am," said her patron, "perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess that you were born in the lap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma'am, you know you were born in the lap of luxury." "I do not, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of her head, "deny it." Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she was such an enhancement of his position. "And you were in crack society. Devilish high society," he said, warming his legs. "It is true, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affectation of humility the very opposite of his, and therefore in no danger of jostling it. "You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of it," said Mr. Bounderby. "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind of social widowhood upon her. "It is unquestionably true." Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, literally embraced his legs in his great satisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then announced, he received the former with a shake of the hand, and the latter with a kiss. "Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?" asked Mr. Gradgrind. Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also to Louisa; but in her confusion unluckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrous Bounderby had the following remarks to make: "Now, I | lady's path. "And yet, sir," he would say, "how does it turn out after all? Why here she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!" Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known, that third parties took it up, and handled it on some occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he not only sang his own praises but stimulated other men to sing them. There was a moral infection of clap-trap in him. Strangers, modest enough elsewhere, started up at dinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite a rampant way, of Bounderby. They made him out to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack, Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, the Bill of Rights, An Englishman's house is his castle, Church and State, and God save the Queen, all put together. And as often (and it was very often) as an orator of this kind brought into his peroration, "Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made," it was, for certain, more or less understood among the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit. "Mr. Bounderby," said Mrs. Sparsit, "you are unusually slow, sir, with your breakfast this morning." "Why, ma'am," he returned, "I am thinking about Tom Gradgrind's whim;" Tom Gradgrind, for a bluff independent manner of speaking as if somebody were always endeavouring to bribe him with immense sums to say Thomas, and he wouldn't; "Tom Gradgrind's whim, ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl." "The girl is now waiting to know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "whether she is to go straight to the school, or up to the Lodge." "She must wait, ma'am," answered Bounderby, "till I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down here presently, I suppose. If he should wish her to remain here a day or two longer, of course she can, ma'am." "Of course she can if you wish it, Mr. Bounderby." "I told him I would give her a shake-down here, last night, in order that he might sleep on it before he decided to let her have any association with Louisa." "Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you!" Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian nose underwent a slight expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows contracted as she took a sip of tea. "It's tolerably clear to _me_," said Bounderby, "that the little puss can get small good out of such companionship."<|quote|>"Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr. Bounderby?"</|quote|>"Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Your observation being limited to "little puss,"" said Mrs. Sparsit, "and there being two little girls in question, I did not know which might be indicated by that expression." "Louisa," repeated Mr. Bounderby. "Louisa, Louisa." "You are quite another father to Louisa, sir." Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup, rather looked as if her classical countenance were invoking the infernal gods. "If you had said I was another father to Tom young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind you might have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young Tom into my office. Going to have him under my wing, ma'am." "Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?" Mrs. Sparsit's "sir," in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was a word of ceremony, rather exacting consideration for herself in the use, than honouring him. "I'm not going to take him at once; he is to finish his educational cramming before then," said Bounderby. "By the Lord Harry, he'll have enough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes, that boy would, if he knew how empty of learning _my_ young maw was, at his time of life." Which, by the by, he probably did know, for he had heard of it often enough. "But it's extraordinary the difficulty I have on scores of such subjects, in speaking to any one on equal terms. Here, for example, I have been speaking to you this morning about tumblers. Why, what do _you_ know about tumblers? At the time when, to have been a tumbler in the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour, when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to light you." "I certainly, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a dignity serenely mournful, "was familiar with the Italian Opera at a very early age." "Egad, ma'am, so was I," said Bounderby, "with the wrong side of it. A hard bed the pavement of its Arcade used to make, I assure you. People like you, ma'am, accustomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers, have no idea _how_ hard a paving-stone is, without trying it. No, no, it's of no use my talking to _you_ about tumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers, and the West End of London, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and honourables." "I trust, sir," rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent resignation, "it is not necessary that you should do anything of that kind. I hope I have learnt how to accommodate myself to the changes of life. If I have acquired an interest in hearing of your instructive experiences, and can scarcely hear enough of them, I claim no merit for that, since I believe it is a general sentiment." "Well, ma'am," said her patron, "perhaps some people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear, in his | Hard Times |
"But" | Kemp | slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, | put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He | put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands | forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? | said. "It s incredible. Three things happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions would make me insane. But it s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?" "Only bid me good-night," said Griffin. "Good-night," said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards him. "Understand me!" said the dressing-gown. "No attempts to hamper me, or capture me! Or" Kemp s face changed a little. "I thought I gave you my word," he said. Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!" "It can t be." "But after all why not?" "If a man was made of glass he would still be visible." His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by practice, and in it were the day s newspapers. The morning s paper lay | examined the two windows of the bedroom, drew up the blinds and opened the sashes, to confirm Kemp s statement that a retreat by them would be possible. Outside the night was very quiet and still, and the new moon was setting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the two dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be made an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied. He stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn. "I m sorry," said the Invisible Man, "if I cannot tell you all that I have done to-night. But I am worn out. It s grotesque, no doubt. It s horrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this morning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant to keep it to myself. I can t. I must have a partner. And you.... We can do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I must sleep or perish." Kemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment. "I suppose I must leave you," he said. "It s incredible. Three things happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions would make me insane. But it s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?" "Only bid me good-night," said Griffin. "Good-night," said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards him. "Understand me!" said the dressing-gown. "No attempts to hamper me, or capture me! Or" Kemp s face changed a little. "I thought I gave you my word," he said. Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!" "It can t be." "But after all why not?" "If a man was made of glass he would still be visible." His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by practice, and in it were the day s newspapers. The morning s paper lay carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over, and read the account of a "Strange Story from Iping" that the mariner at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it swiftly. "Wrapped up!" said Kemp. "Disguised! Hiding it! No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune. What the devil _is_ his game?" He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. "Ah!" he said, and caught up the _St. James Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. "Now we shall get at the truth," said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a couple of columns confronted him. "An Entire Village in Sussex goes Mad" was the heading. "Good Heavens!" said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been reprinted. He re-read it. "Ran through the streets striking right and left. Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not to print _cum | 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 the idea into your head." CHAPTER XVIII. THE INVISIBLE MAN SLEEPS Exhausted and wounded as the Invisible Man was, he refused to accept Kemp s word that his freedom should be respected. He examined the two windows of the bedroom, drew up the blinds and opened the sashes, to confirm Kemp s statement that a retreat by them would be possible. Outside the night was very quiet and still, and the new moon was setting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the two dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be made an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied. He stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn. "I m sorry," said the Invisible Man, "if I cannot tell you all that I have done to-night. But I am worn out. It s grotesque, no doubt. It s horrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this morning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant to keep it to myself. I can t. I must have a partner. And you.... We can do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I must sleep or perish." Kemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment. "I suppose I must leave you," he said. "It s incredible. Three things happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions would make me insane. But it s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?" "Only bid me good-night," said Griffin. "Good-night," said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards him. "Understand me!" said the dressing-gown. "No attempts to hamper me, or capture me! Or" Kemp s face changed a little. "I thought I gave you my word," he said. Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!" "It can t be." "But after all why not?" "If a man was made of glass he would still be visible." His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by practice, and in it were the day s newspapers. The morning s paper lay carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over, and read the account of a "Strange Story from Iping" that the mariner at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it swiftly. "Wrapped up!" said Kemp. "Disguised! Hiding it! No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune. What the devil _is_ his game?" He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. "Ah!" he said, and caught up the _St. James Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. "Now we shall get at the truth," said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a couple of columns confronted him. "An Entire Village in Sussex goes Mad" was the heading. "Good Heavens!" said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been reprinted. He re-read it. "Ran through the streets striking right and left. Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not to print _cum grano_!" He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. "Probably a fabrication!" He caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business. "But when does the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?" He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. "He s not only invisible," he said, "but he s mad! Homicidal!" When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke of the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp the incredible. He was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending sleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study had worked this ill on him. He gave them extraordinary but quite explicit instructions to lay breakfast for two in the belvedere study and then to confine themselves to the basement and ground-floor. Then he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning s paper came. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation of the evening before, and a very badly written account of another remarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the happenings at the "Jolly Cricketers," and the name of Marvel. "He has made me keep with him twenty-four hours," Marvel testified. Certain minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the connexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter. Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured. "He is invisible!" he said. "And it reads like rage growing to mania! The things he may do! The things he may do! And he s upstairs free as the air. What on earth ought I to do?" "For instance, would it be a breach of faith if ? No." He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to "Colonel Adye, | and the new moon was setting over the down. Then he examined the keys of the bedroom and the two dressing-room doors, to satisfy himself that these also could be made an assurance of freedom. Finally he expressed himself satisfied. He stood on the hearth rug and Kemp heard the sound of a yawn. "I m sorry," said the Invisible Man, "if I cannot tell you all that I have done to-night. But I am worn out. It s grotesque, no doubt. It s horrible! But believe me, Kemp, in spite of your arguments of this morning, it is quite a possible thing. I have made a discovery. I meant to keep it to myself. I can t. I must have a partner. And you.... We can do such things ... But to-morrow. Now, Kemp, I feel as though I must sleep or perish." Kemp stood in the middle of the room staring at the headless garment. "I suppose I must leave you," he said. "It s incredible. Three things happening like this, overturning all my preconceptions would make me insane. But it s real! Is there anything more that I can get you?" "Only bid me good-night," said Griffin. "Good-night," said Kemp, and shook an invisible hand. He walked sideways to the door. Suddenly the dressing-gown walked quickly towards him. "Understand me!" said the dressing-gown. "No attempts to hamper me, or capture me! Or" Kemp s face changed a little. "I thought I gave you my word," he said. Kemp closed the door softly behind him, and the key was turned upon him forthwith. Then, as he stood with an expression of passive amazement on his face, the rapid feet came to the door of the dressing-room and that too was locked. Kemp slapped his brow with his hand. "Am I dreaming? Has the world gone mad or have I?" He laughed, and put his hand to the locked door. "Barred out of my own bedroom, by a flagrant absurdity!" he said. He walked to the head of the staircase, turned, and stared at the locked doors. "It s fact," he said. He put his fingers to his slightly bruised neck. "Undeniable fact!"<|quote|>"But"</|quote|>He shook his head hopelessly, turned, and went downstairs. He lit the dining-room lamp, got out a cigar, and began pacing the room, ejaculating. Now and then he would argue with himself. "Invisible!" he said. "Is there such a thing as an invisible animal? ... In the sea, yes. Thousands millions. All the larvae, all the little nauplii and tornarias, all the microscopic things, the jelly-fish. In the sea there are more things invisible than visible! I never thought of that before. And in the ponds too! All those little pond-life things specks of colourless translucent jelly! But in air? No!" "It can t be." "But after all why not?" "If a man was made of glass he would still be visible." His meditation became profound. The bulk of three cigars had passed into the invisible or diffused as a white ash over the carpet before he spoke again. Then it was merely an exclamation. He turned aside, walked out of the room, and went into his little consulting-room and lit the gas there. It was a little room, because Dr. Kemp did not live by practice, and in it were the day s newspapers. The morning s paper lay carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over, and read the account of a "Strange Story from Iping" that the mariner at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it swiftly. "Wrapped up!" said Kemp. "Disguised! Hiding it! No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune. What the devil _is_ his game?" He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. "Ah!" he said, and caught up the _St. James Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. "Now we shall get at the truth," said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a couple of columns confronted him. "An Entire Village in Sussex goes Mad" was the heading. "Good Heavens!" said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been reprinted. He re-read it. "Ran through the streets striking right and left. Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not to print _cum grano_!" He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. "Probably a fabrication!" He caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business. "But when does the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?" He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. "He s not only invisible," he said, "but he s mad! Homicidal!" When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke of the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp the incredible. He was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending sleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study had worked this ill on him. | The Invisible Man |
she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat: | No speaker | not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of | dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, | middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred | train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the | of man and his changing faces, and the houses he has built for himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at sunset and identified on a map an enormous fortress among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asirgarh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was to the left of the bastions now. The train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be | are supposed to entail profundity, but Wait till you get one, dear reader! The abyss also may be petty, the serpent of eternity made of maggots; her constant thought was: "Less attention should be paid to my future daughter-in-law and more to me, there is no sorrow like my sorrow," although when the attention was paid she rejected it irritably. Her son couldn't escort her to Bombay, for the local situation continued acute, and all officials had to remain at their posts. Antony couldn't come either, in case he never returned to give his evidence. So she travelled with no one who could remind her of the past. This was a relief. The heat had drawn back a little before its next advance, and the journey was not unpleasant. As she left Chandrapore the moon, full again, shone over the Ganges and touched the shrinking channels into threads of silver, then veered and looked into her window. The swift and comfortable mail-train slid with her through the night, and all the next day she was rushing through Central India, through landscapes that were baked and bleached but had not the hopeless melancholy of the plain. She watched the indestructible life of man and his changing faces, and the houses he has built for himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at sunset and identified on a map an enormous fortress among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asirgarh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was to the left of the bastions now. The train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room. "Half a minute," she murmured. The Turtons had | escaped the trial, the marriage, and the hot weather; she would return to England in comfort and distinction, and see her other children. At her son's suggestion, and by her own desire, she departed. But she accepted her good luck without enthusiasm. She had come to that state where the horror of the universe and its smallness are both visible at the same time the twilight of the double vision in which so many elderly people are involved. If this world is not to our taste, well, at all events there is Heaven, Hell, Annihilation one or other of those large things, that huge scenic background of stars, fires, blue or black air. All heroic endeavour, and all that is known as art, assumes that there is such a background, just as all practical endeavour, when the world is to our taste, assumes that the world is all. But in the twilight of the double vision, a spiritual muddledom is set up for which no high-sounding words can be found; we can neither act nor refrain from action, we can neither ignore nor respect Infinity. Mrs. Moore had always inclined to resignation. As soon as she landed in India it seemed to her good, and when she saw the water flowing through the mosque-tank, or the Ganges, or the moon, caught in the shawl of night with all the other stars, it seemed a beautiful goal and an easy one. To be one with the universe! So dignified and simple. But there was always some little duty to be performed first, some new card to be turned up from the diminishing pack and placed, and while she was pottering about, the Marabar struck its gong. What had spoken to her in that scoured-out cavity of the granite? What dwelt in the first of the caves? Something very old and very small. Before time, it was before space also. Something snub-nosed, incapable of generosity the undying worm itself. Since hearing its voice, she had not entertained one large thought, she was actually envious of Adela. All this fuss over a frightened girl! Nothing had happened, "and if it had," she found herself thinking with the cynicism of a withered priestess, "if it had, there are worse evils than love." The unspeakable attempt presented itself to her as love: in a cave, in a church Boum, it amounts to the same. Visions are supposed to entail profundity, but Wait till you get one, dear reader! The abyss also may be petty, the serpent of eternity made of maggots; her constant thought was: "Less attention should be paid to my future daughter-in-law and more to me, there is no sorrow like my sorrow," although when the attention was paid she rejected it irritably. Her son couldn't escort her to Bombay, for the local situation continued acute, and all officials had to remain at their posts. Antony couldn't come either, in case he never returned to give his evidence. So she travelled with no one who could remind her of the past. This was a relief. The heat had drawn back a little before its next advance, and the journey was not unpleasant. As she left Chandrapore the moon, full again, shone over the Ganges and touched the shrinking channels into threads of silver, then veered and looked into her window. The swift and comfortable mail-train slid with her through the night, and all the next day she was rushing through Central India, through landscapes that were baked and bleached but had not the hopeless melancholy of the plain. She watched the indestructible life of man and his changing faces, and the houses he has built for himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at sunset and identified on a map an enormous fortress among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asirgarh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was to the left of the bastions now. The train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room. "Half a minute," she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her position not her character that moved them; she was the English girl who had had the terrible experience, and for whom too much could not be done. No one, except Ronny, had any idea of what passed in her mind, and he only dimly, for where there is officialism every human relationship suffers. In her sadness she said to him, "I bring you nothing but trouble; I was right on the Maidan, we had better just be friends," but he protested, for the more she suffered the more highly he valued her. Did she love him? This question was somehow draggled up with the Marabar, it had been in her mind as she entered the fatal cave. Was she capable of loving anyone? "Miss Quested, Adela, what d'ye call yourself, it's half-past seven; we ought to think of starting for that Court when you feel inclined." "She's saying her prayers," came the Collector's voice. "Sorry, my dear; take your time. . . . Was your chhota hazri all right?" "I can't eat; might I have a little brandy?" she asked, deserting Jehovah. When it was brought, she shuddered, and said she was ready to go. "Drink it up; not a bad notion, a peg." "I don't think it'll really help me, Burra Sahib." "You sent brandy down to the Court, didn't you, Mary?" "I should think I did, champagne too." "I'll thank you this evening, I'm all to pieces now," said the girl, forming each syllable carefully as if her trouble would diminish if it were accurately defined. She was afraid of reticence, in case something that she herself did not perceive took shape beneath it, and she had rehearsed with Mr. McBryde in an odd, mincing way her terrible adventure in the cave, how the man had never actually touched her but dragged her about, and so on. Her aim this morning was to announce, meticulously, that the strain was appalling, and she would probably break down under Mr. Amritrao's cross-examination and disgrace her friends. "My echo has come back again badly," she told them. "How about aspirin?" "It is not a headache, it is an echo." Unable to dispel the buzzing in her ears, Major Callendar had diagnosed it as a fancy, which must not be encouraged. So the Turtons changed the subject. The | mail-train slid with her through the night, and all the next day she was rushing through Central India, through landscapes that were baked and bleached but had not the hopeless melancholy of the plain. She watched the indestructible life of man and his changing faces, and the houses he has built for himself and God, and they appeared to her not in terms of her own trouble but as things to see. There was, for instance, a place called Asirgarh which she passed at sunset and identified on a map an enormous fortress among wooded hills. No one had ever mentioned Asirgarh to her, but it had huge and noble bastions and to the right of them was a mosque. She forgot it. Ten minutes later, Asirgarh reappeared. The mosque was to the left of the bastions now. The train in its descent through the Vindyas had described a semicircle round Asirgarh. What could she connect it with except its own name? Nothing; she knew no one who lived there. But it had looked at her twice and seemed to say: "I do not vanish." She woke in the middle of the night with a start, for the train was falling over the western cliff. Moonlit pinnacles rushed up at her like the fringes of a sea; then a brief episode of plain, the real sea, and the soupy dawn of Bombay. "I have not seen the right places,"<|quote|>she thought, as she saw embayed in the platforms of the Victoria Terminus the end of the rails that had carried her over a continent and could never carry her back. She would never visit Asirgarh or the other untouched places; neither Delhi nor Agra nor the Rajputana cities nor Kashmir, nor the obscurer marvels that had sometimes shone through men's speech: the bilingual rock of Girnar, the statue of Shri Belgola, the ruins of Mandu and Hampi, temples of Khajraha, gardens of Shalimar. As she drove through the huge city which the West has built and abandoned with a gesture of despair, she longed to stop, though it was only Bombay, and disentangle the hundred Indias that passed each other in its streets. The feet of the horses moved her on, and presently the boat sailed and thousands of coco-nut palms appeared all round the anchorage and climbed the hills to wave her farewell. "So you thought an echo was India; you took the Marabar caves as final?" they laughed. "What have we in common with them, or they with Asirgarh? Good-bye!" Then the steamer rounded Colaba, the continent swung about, the cliff of the Ghats melted into the haze of a tropic sea. Lady Mellanby turned up and advised her not to stand in the heat:</|quote|>"We are safely out of the frying-pan," said Lady Mellanby, "it will never do to fall into the fire." CHAPTER XXIV Making sudden changes of gear, the heat accelerated its advance after Mrs. Moore's departure until existence had to be endured and crime punished with the thermometer at a hundred and twelve. Electric fans hummed and spat, water splashed on to screens, ice clinked, and outside these defences, between a greyish sky and a yellowish earth, clouds of dust moved hesitatingly. In Europe life retreats out of the cold, and exquisite fireside myths have resulted Balder, Persephone but here the retreat is from the source of life, the treacherous sun, and no poetry adorns it because disillusionment cannot be beautiful. Men yearn for poetry though they may not confess it; they desire that joy shall be graceful and sorrow august and infinity have a form, and India fails to accommodate them. The annual helter-skelter of April, when irritability and lust spread like a canker, is one of her comments on the orderly hopes of humanity. Fish manage better; fish, as the tanks dry, wriggle into the mud and wait for the rains to uncake them. But men try to be harmonious all the year round, and the results are occasionally disastrous. The triumphant machine of civilization may suddenly hitch and be immobilized into a car of stone, and at such moments the destiny of the English seems to resemble their predecessors', who also entered the country with intent to refashion it, but were in the end worked into its pattern and covered with its dust. Adela, after years of intellectualism, had resumed her morning kneel to Christianity. There seemed no harm in it, it was the shortest and easiest cut to the unseen, and she could tack her troubles on to it. Just as the Hindu clerks asked Lakshmi for an increase in pay, so did she implore Jehovah for a favourable verdict. God who saves the King will surely support the police. Her deity returned a consoling reply, but the touch of her hands on her face started prickly heat, and she seemed to swallow and expectorate the same insipid clot of air that had weighed on her lungs all the night. Also the voice of Mrs. Turton disturbed her. "Are you ready, young lady?" it pealed from the next room. "Half a minute," she murmured. The Turtons had received her after Mrs. Moore left. Their kindness was incredible, but it was her | A Passage To India |
retorted Fagin. | No speaker | of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance | largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are | take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out | without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose in plain English, the halter!" Mr. Bolter put | man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose in plain English, the halter!" Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance. "The gallows," continued Fagin, "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you." "Of course it is," replied Mr. Bolter. "What do yer talk about such things for?" "Only to show you my meaning clearly," said the Jew, raising | talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose in plain English, the halter!" Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance. "The gallows," continued Fagin, "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you." "Of course it is," replied Mr. Bolter. "What do yer talk about such things for?" "Only to show you my meaning clearly," said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. "To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company." "That's true," rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. "Oh! yer a cunning old codger!" Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter's respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, | mind turning my hand to it sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, you know." "That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, it might not." "What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home." "What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner." "Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there any other line open?" "Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay." "What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole. "The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away they've always got it ready in their hands, then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!" "Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose in plain English, the halter!" Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance. "The gallows," continued Fagin, "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you." "Of course it is," replied Mr. Bolter. "What do yer talk about such things for?" "Only to show you my meaning clearly," said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. "To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to pieces in company." "That's true," rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. "Oh! yer a cunning old codger!" Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter's respect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken. "It's this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses," said Fagin. "My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning." "You don't mean to say he died?" cried Mr. Bolter. "No, no," replied Fagin, "not so bad as that. Not quite so bad." "What, I suppose he was" "Wanted," interposed Fagin. "Yes, he was wanted." "Very particular?" inquired Mr. Bolter. "No," replied Fagin, "not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him, his own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the price of as many to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger." "Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?" said Mr. Bolter. "I'm doubtful about it," replied Fagin, with a sigh. "If they don't get any fresh evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he'll be a lifer. They'll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer." "What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "What's the good of talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can understand yer?" Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that they represented that combination of words, "transportation for life," when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe. "It's all up, Fagin," said Charley, when he and his new companion had been made known to each other. "What do you mean?" "They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a coming to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out," replied Master Bates. "I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore | in an ecstasy. "Lord, that's the very thing!" "To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!" With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. "Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. "What time to-morrow shall we say?" "Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What name shall I tell my good friend." "Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. "Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter." "Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly." "Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole. "Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. "She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?" "Oh yes, I understand perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. "Good-night! Good-night!" With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity. CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE "And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "Cod, I thought as much last night!" "Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere." "Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know." "Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature." "There oughn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter. "That stands to reason. Some conjurers say that number three is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, neither. It's number one." "Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever." "In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it necessary to qualify this position, "we have a general number one, without considering me too as the same, and all the other young people." "Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter. "You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, "we are so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. For instance, it's your object to take care of number one meaning yourself." "Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there." "Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of me, number one." "Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the quality of selfishness. "No, I don't!"<|quote|>retorted Fagin.</|quote|>"I'm of the same importance to you, as you are to yourself." "I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to." "Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose in plain English, the halter!" Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance. "The gallows," continued Fagin, "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with you." "Of course it is," replied Mr. Bolter. "What do yer talk about such things for?" "Only to show you my meaning clearly," said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. "To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first that a regard for number one holds us all together, and | Oliver Twist |
"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant." | Julia Bertram | moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed | Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little | recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to | performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and | influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. | looking at and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which | there is some reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off." "Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund. Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together. "It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!" "Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away." "_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom." "At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way to chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now." For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed a little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?" "Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out. "Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. "Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants." "Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him, "whether we may not find something to employ us here before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?" "James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet." No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she | to distract the attention from without, and it would not be tried so long." "The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are." While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?" Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar." Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?" "I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning. Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.<|quote|>"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."</|quote|>And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place. "If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready." Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be at what she said just now," passed across her mind. "Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be a clergyman?" "Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return probably at Christmas." Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are _too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five." Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what | Mansfield Park |
I said after a moment. | No speaker | in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, | included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want | to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up | “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no | just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” | “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in | he would give his name. “This is Mr. Carraway,” I said. “Oh!” He sounded relieved. “This is Klipspringer.” I was relieved too, for that seemed to promise another friend at Gatsby’s grave. I didn’t want it to be in the papers and draw a sightseeing crowd, so I’d been calling up a few people myself. They were hard to find. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” I said. “Three o’clock, here at the house. I wish you’d tell anybody who’d be interested.” “Oh, I will,” he broke out hastily. “Of course I’m not likely to see anybody, but if I do.” His tone made me suspicious. “Of course you’ll be there yourself.” “Well, I’ll certainly try. What I called up about is—” “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “How about saying you’ll come?” “Well, the fact is—the truth of the matter is that I’m staying with some people up here in Greenwich, and they rather expect me to be with them tomorrow. In fact, there’s a sort of picnic or something. Of course I’ll do my best to get away.” I ejaculated an unrestrained “Huh!” and he must have heard me, for he went on nervously: “What I called up about was a pair of shoes I left there. I wonder if it’d be too much trouble to have the butler send them on. You see, they’re tennis shoes, and I’m sort of helpless without them. My address is care of B. F.—” I didn’t hear the rest of the name, because I hung up the receiver. After that I felt a certain shame for Gatsby—one gentleman to whom I telephoned implied that he had got what he deserved. However, that was my fault, for he was one of those who used to sneer most bitterly at Gatsby on the courage of Gatsby’s liquor, and I should have known better than to call him. The morning of the funeral I went up to New York to see Meyer Wolfshiem; I couldn’t seem to reach him any other way. The door that I pushed open, on the advice of an elevator boy, was marked “The Swastika Holding Company,” and at first there didn’t seem to be anyone inside. But when I’d shouted “hello” several times in vain, an argument broke out behind a partition, and presently a lovely Jewess appeared at an interior door and scrutinized me with black hostile eyes. “Nobody’s in,” she said. “Mr. Wolfshiem’s gone to Chicago.” The first part of this was obviously untrue, for someone had begun to whistle “The Rosary,” tunelessly, inside. “Please say that Mr. Carraway wants to see him.” “I can’t get him back from Chicago, can I?” At this moment a voice, unmistakably Wolfshiem’s, called “Stella!” from the other side of the door. “Leave your name on the desk,” she said quickly. “I’ll give it to him when he gets back.” “But I know he’s there.” She took a step toward me and began to slide her hands indignantly up and down her hips. “You young men think you can force your way in here any time,” she scolded. “We’re getting sickantired of it. When I say he’s in Chicago, he’s in Chicago.” I mentioned Gatsby. “Oh-h!” She looked at me over again. “Will you just—What was your name?” She vanished. In a moment Meyer Wolfshiem stood solemnly in the doorway, holding out both hands. He drew me into his office, remarking in a reverent voice that it was a sad time for all of us, and offered me a cigar. “My memory goes back to when first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son and in his son’s possessions was continually increasing and now he had something to show me. “Jimmy sent me this picture.” He took out his wallet with trembling fingers. “Look there.” It was a photograph of the house, cracked in the corners and dirty with many hands. He pointed out every detail to me eagerly. “Look there!” and then sought admiration from my eyes. He had shown it so often that I think it was more real to him now than the house itself. “Jimmy sent it to me. I think it’s a very pretty picture. It shows up well.” “Very well. Had you seen him lately?” “He come out to see me two years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and | first I met him,” he said. “A young major just out of the army and covered over with medals he got in the war. He was so hard up he had to keep on wearing his uniform because he couldn’t buy some regular clothes. First time I saw him was when he came into Winebrenner’s poolroom at Forty-third Street and asked for a job. He hadn’t eat anything for a couple of days. ‘Come on have some lunch with me,’ I said. He ate more than four dollars’ worth of food in half an hour.” “Did you start him in business?” I inquired. “Start him! I made him.” “Oh.” “I raised him up out of nothing, right out of the gutter. I saw right away he was a fine-appearing, gentlemanly young man, and when he told me he was at Oggsford I knew I could use him good. I got him to join the American Legion and he used to stand high there. Right off he did some work for a client of mine up to Albany. We were so thick like that in everything” —he held up two bulbous fingers— “always together.” I wondered if this partnership had included the World’s Series transaction in 1919. “Now he’s dead,”<|quote|>I said after a moment.</|quote|>“You were his closest friend, so I know you’ll want to come to his funeral this afternoon.” “I’d like to come.” “Well, come then.” The hair in his nostrils quivered slightly, and as he shook his head his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do it—I can’t get mixed up in it,” he said. “There’s nothing to get mixed up in. It’s all over now.” “When a man gets killed I never like to get mixed up in it in any way. I keep out. When I was a young man it was different—if a friend of mine died, no matter how, I stuck with them to the end. You may think that’s sentimental, but I mean it—to the bitter end.” I saw that for some reason of his own he was determined not to come, so I stood up. “Are you a college man?” he inquired suddenly. For a moment I thought he was going to suggest a “gonnegtion,” but he only nodded and shook my hand. “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead,” he suggested. “After that my own rule is to let everything alone.” When I left his office the sky had turned dark and I got back to West Egg in a drizzle. After changing my clothes I went next door and found Mr. Gatz walking up and down excitedly in the hall. His pride in his son | The Great Gatsby |
"I ve only been here about ten minutes," | Katharine Hilbery | he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, | ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over | was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn | complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the | her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry, at least. "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of her hand. "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily. "Well, you stay and talk to | not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry, at least. "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of her hand. "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily. "Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I ll go down," she replied. She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laid her hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney s shoulder. Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse of emotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a book. "I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand, and made as if to pass him. "Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry." "Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation was polite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated as to the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, he exclaimed: "No. I want to come with you." She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone, and with an expression of authority upon her face: "It s useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten minutes. Good night." She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help noticing that her last nod was in his direction. Rodney sat down rather heavily. His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely | only one or two could be selected for Henry s inspection, and therefore she sighed. Then she looked at him, and their eyes meeting, much more seemed to be in common between them than had appeared possible. At any rate they had a grandfather in common; at any rate there was a kind of loyalty between them sometimes found between relations who have no other cause to like each other, as these two had. "Well, what s the date of the wedding?" said Henry, the malicious mood now predominating. "I think some time in March," she replied. "And afterwards?" he asked. "We take a house, I suppose, somewhere in Chelsea." "It s very interesting," he observed, stealing another look at her. She lay back in her arm-chair, her feet high upon the side of the grate, and in front of her, presumably to screen her eyes, she held a newspaper from which she picked up a sentence or two now and again. Observing this, Henry remarked: "Perhaps marriage will make you more human." At this she lowered the newspaper an inch or two, but said nothing. Indeed, she sat quite silent for over a minute. "When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly. "No more do I," she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry, at least. "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of her hand. "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily. "Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I ll go down," she replied. She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laid her hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney s shoulder. Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse of emotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a book. "I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand, and made as if to pass him. "Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry." "Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation was polite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated as to the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at the door, he exclaimed: "No. I want to come with you." She looked back, and said in a very commanding tone, and with an expression of authority upon her face: "It s useless for you to come. I shall go to bed in ten minutes. Good night." She nodded to them both, but Henry could not help noticing that her last nod was in his direction. Rodney sat down rather heavily. His mortification was so obvious that Henry scarcely liked to open the conversation with some remark of a literary character. On the other hand, unless he checked him, Rodney might begin to talk about his feelings, and irreticence is apt to be extremely painful, at any rate in prospect. He therefore adopted a middle course; that is to say, he wrote a note upon the fly-leaf of his book, which ran, "The situation is becoming most uncomfortable." This he decorated with those flourishes and decorative borders which grow of themselves upon these occasions; and as he did so, he thought to himself that whatever Katharine s difficulties might be, they did not justify her behavior. She had spoken with a kind of brutality which suggested that, whether it is natural or assumed, women have a peculiar blindness to the feelings of men. The penciling of this note gave Rodney time to recover himself. Perhaps, for he was a very vain man, he was more hurt that Henry had seen him rebuffed than by the rebuff itself. He was in love with Katharine, and vanity is not decreased but increased by love; especially, one may hazard, in the presence of one s own sex. But Rodney enjoyed the courage which springs from that laughable and lovable defect, and when he had mastered his first impulse, in some way to make a fool of himself, he drew inspiration from the perfect fit of his evening dress. He chose a cigarette, tapped it on the back of his hand, displayed his exquisite pumps on the edge of the fender, and summoned his self-respect. "You ve several big estates round here, Otway," he began. "Any good hunting? Let me see, what pack would it be? Who s your great man?" "Sir William Budge, the sugar king, has the biggest estate. He bought out poor Stanham, who went bankrupt." "Which Stanham would that be? Verney or Alfred?" "Alfred.... I don t hunt myself. You re a great huntsman, aren t you? You have a great reputation as a horseman, anyhow," he added, desiring to help Rodney in his effort to recover his complacency. "Oh, I love riding," Rodney replied. "Could I get a horse down here? Stupid of me! I forgot to bring any clothes. I can t imagine, though, who told you I was anything of a rider?" To tell the truth, Henry labored under the same difficulty; he did not wish | the stars, our affairs don t seem to matter very much, do they?" she said suddenly. "I don t think I ever do consider things like the stars," Henry replied. "I m not sure that that s not the explanation, though," he added, now observing her steadily. "I doubt whether there is an explanation," she replied rather hurriedly, not clearly understanding what he meant. "What? No explanation of anything?" he inquired, with a smile. "Oh, things happen. That s about all," she let drop in her casual, decided way. "That certainly seems to explain some of your actions," Henry thought to himself. "One thing s about as good as another, and one s got to do something," he said aloud, expressing what he supposed to be her attitude, much in her accent. Perhaps she detected the imitation, for looking gently at him, she said, with ironical composure: "Well, if you believe that your life must be simple, Henry." "But I don t believe it," he said shortly. "No more do I," she replied. "What about the stars?" he asked a moment later. "I understand that you rule your life by the stars?" She let this pass, either because she did not attend to it, or because the tone was not to her liking. Once more she paused, and then she inquired: "But do you always understand why you do everything? Ought one to understand? People like my mother understand," she reflected. "Now I must go down to them, I suppose, and see what s happening." "What could be happening?" Henry protested. "Oh, they may want to settle something," she replied vaguely, putting her feet on the ground, resting her chin on her hands, and looking out of her large dark eyes contemplatively at the fire. "And then there s William," she added, as if by an afterthought. Henry very nearly laughed, but restrained himself. "Do they know what coals are made of, Henry?" she asked, a moment later. "Mares tails, I believe," he hazarded. "Have you ever been down a coal-mine?" she went on. "Don t let s talk about coal-mines, Katharine," he protested. "We shall probably never see each other again. When you re married" Tremendously to his surprise, he saw the tears stand in her eyes. "Why do you all tease me?" she said. "It isn t kind." Henry could not pretend that he was altogether ignorant of her meaning, though, certainly, he had never guessed that she minded the teasing. But before he knew what to say, her eyes were clear again, and the sudden crack in the surface was almost filled up. "Things aren t easy, anyhow," she stated. Obeying an impulse of genuine affection, Henry spoke. "Promise me, Katharine, that if I can ever help you, you will let me." She seemed to consider, looking once more into the red of the fire, and decided to refrain from any explanation. "Yes, I promise that," she said at length, and Henry felt himself gratified by her complete sincerity, and began to tell her now about the coal-mine, in obedience to her love of facts. They were, indeed, descending the shaft in a small cage, and could hear the picks of the miners, something like the gnawing of rats, in the earth beneath them, when the door was burst open, without any knocking. "Well, here you are!" Rodney exclaimed. Both Katharine and Henry turned round very quickly and rather guiltily. Rodney was in evening dress. It was clear that his temper was ruffled. "That s where you ve been all the time," he repeated, looking at Katharine.<|quote|>"I ve only been here about ten minutes,"</|quote|>she replied. "My dear Katharine, you left the drawing-room over an hour ago." She said nothing. "Does it very much matter?" Henry asked. Rodney found it hard to be unreasonable in the presence of another man, and did not answer him. "They don t like it," he said. "It isn t kind to old people to leave them alone although I ve no doubt it s much more amusing to sit up here and talk to Henry." "We were discussing coal-mines," said Henry urbanely. "Yes. But we were talking about much more interesting things before that," said Katharine. From the apparent determination to hurt him with which she spoke, Henry thought that some sort of explosion on Rodney s part was about to take place. "I can quite understand that," said Rodney, with his little chuckle, leaning over the back of his chair and tapping the woodwork lightly with his fingers. They were all silent, and the silence was acutely uncomfortable to Henry, at least. "Was it very dull, William?" Katharine suddenly asked, with a complete change of tone and a little gesture of her hand. "Of course it was dull," William said sulkily. "Well, you stay and talk to Henry, and I ll go down," she replied. She rose as she spoke, and as she turned to leave the room, she laid her hand, with a curiously caressing gesture, upon Rodney s shoulder. Instantly Rodney clasped her hand in his, with such an impulse of emotion that Henry was annoyed, and rather ostentatiously opened a book. "I shall come down with you," said William, as she drew back her hand, and made as if to pass him. "Oh no," she said hastily. "You stay here and talk to Henry." "Yes, do," said Henry, shutting up his book again. His invitation was polite, without being precisely cordial. Rodney evidently hesitated as to the course he should pursue, but seeing Katharine at | Night And Day |
“Oh,” | Lady Sandgate | could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise | if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways | in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of | the mere most beautiful daughter at home.” She had put the picture a shade interrogatively, but this was as nothing to the note of free inquiry in Lord John’s reply. “You mean that our lovely young widows--to say nothing of lovely young wives--ought by this time to have made out, in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of her gaming debts--to say nothing of others!--and wishing to have at least those wiped out in the interest of her reputation? Exactly so,” he went on before she could meet it with a diplomatic ambiguity; “and just that, I assure you, is a large part of the reason I like | went on as with a practised glance in the direction of delicacy; “but I think I should like you to know that I myself am not a bit ignorant of why it has made such an impression here.” Lady Sandgate forestalled his knowledge. “Because poor Kitty Imber--who should either never touch a card or else learn to suffer in silence, as I’ve had to, goodness knows!--has thrown herself, with her impossible big debt, upon her father? whom she thinks herself entitled to ‘look to’ even more as a lovely young widow with a good jointure than she formerly did as the mere most beautiful daughter at home.” She had put the picture a shade interrogatively, but this was as nothing to the note of free inquiry in Lord John’s reply. “You mean that our lovely young widows--to say nothing of lovely young wives--ought by this time to have made out, in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of her gaming debts--to say nothing of others!--and wishing to have at least those wiped out in the interest of her reputation? Exactly so,” he went on before she could meet it with a diplomatic ambiguity; “and just that, I assure you, is a large part of the reason I like to come here--since I personally don’t come with any such associations.” “Not the association of bankruptcy--no; as you represent the payee!” The young man appeared to regard this imputation for a moment almost as a liberty taken. “How do you know so well, Lady Sandgate, what I represent?” She bethought herself--but briefly and bravely. “Well, don’t you represent, by your own admission, certain fond aspirations? Don’t you represent the belief--very natural, I grant--that more than _one_ perverse and extravagant flower will be unlikely on such a fine healthy old stem; and, consistently with that, the hope of arranging with our | last, invincible; gathering in the spoils and only routing her friends?” She abounded genially in her privileged vision. “Ah yes--we know something of that!” Lord John, who was a young man of a rambling but not of an idle eye, fixed her an instant with a surprise that was yet not steeped in compassion. “You too then?” She wouldn’t, however, too meanly narrow it down. “Well, in this house generally; where I’m so often made welcome, you see, and where----” “Where,” he broke in at once, “your jolly good footing quite sticks out of _you_, perhaps you’ll let me say!” She clearly didn’t mind his seeing her ask herself how she should deal with so much rather juvenile intelligence; and indeed she could only decide to deal quite simply. “You can’t say more than I feel--and am proud to feel!--at being of comfort when they’re worried.” This but fed the light flame of his easy perception--which lighted for him, if she would, all the facts equally. “And they’re worried now, you imply, because my terrible mother is capable of heavy gains and of making a great noise if she isn’t paid? I ought to mind speaking of that truth,” he went on as with a practised glance in the direction of delicacy; “but I think I should like you to know that I myself am not a bit ignorant of why it has made such an impression here.” Lady Sandgate forestalled his knowledge. “Because poor Kitty Imber--who should either never touch a card or else learn to suffer in silence, as I’ve had to, goodness knows!--has thrown herself, with her impossible big debt, upon her father? whom she thinks herself entitled to ‘look to’ even more as a lovely young widow with a good jointure than she formerly did as the mere most beautiful daughter at home.” She had put the picture a shade interrogatively, but this was as nothing to the note of free inquiry in Lord John’s reply. “You mean that our lovely young widows--to say nothing of lovely young wives--ought by this time to have made out, in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of her gaming debts--to say nothing of others!--and wishing to have at least those wiped out in the interest of her reputation? Exactly so,” he went on before she could meet it with a diplomatic ambiguity; “and just that, I assure you, is a large part of the reason I like to come here--since I personally don’t come with any such associations.” “Not the association of bankruptcy--no; as you represent the payee!” The young man appeared to regard this imputation for a moment almost as a liberty taken. “How do you know so well, Lady Sandgate, what I represent?” She bethought herself--but briefly and bravely. “Well, don’t you represent, by your own admission, certain fond aspirations? Don’t you represent the belief--very natural, I grant--that more than _one_ perverse and extravagant flower will be unlikely on such a fine healthy old stem; and, consistently with that, the hope of arranging with our admirable host here that he shall lend a helpful hand to your commending yourself to dear Grace?” nan “treatment” by which his negative nose had been enabled to look important and his meagre mouth to smile its spareness away. He had pleasant but hard little eyes--they glittered, handsomely, without promise--and a neatness, a coolness and an ease, a clear instinct for making point take, on his behalf, the place of weight and immunity that of capacity, which represented somehow the art of living at a high pitch and yet at a low cost. There was that in his satisfied air which still suggested sharp wants--and this was withal the ambiguity; for the temper of these appetites or views was certainly, you would have concluded, not such as always to sacrifice to form. If he really, for instance, wanted Lady Grace, the passion or the sense of his interest in it would scarce have been considerately irritable. “May I ask what you mean,” he inquired of Lady Sandgate, “by the question of my ‘arranging’?” “I mean that you’re the very clever son of a very clever mother.” “Oh, I’m less clever than you think,” he replied-- “if you really think it | it mostly had easier consequences--for herself--than the perhaps more showy creation of alarm. “Only off in the park--open to-day for a school-feast from Dedborough, as you may have made out from the avenue; giving good advice, at the top of his lungs, to four hundred and fifty children.” It was such a scene, and such an aspect of the personage so accounted for, as Lord John could easily take in, and his recognition familiarly smiled. “Oh he’s so great on such occasions that I’m sorry to be missing it.” “I’ve _had_ to miss it,” Lady Sandgate sighed-- “that is to miss the peroration. I’ve just left them, but he had even then been going on for twenty minutes, and I dare say that if you care to take a look you’ll find him, poor dear victim of duty, still _at_ it.” “I’ll warrant--for, as I often tell him, he makes the idea of one’s duty an awful thing to his friends by the extravagance with which he always overdoes it.” And the image itself appeared in some degree to prompt this particular edified friend to look at his watch and consider. “I should like to come in for the grand _finale_, but I rattled over in a great measure to meet a party, as he calls himself--and calls, if you please, even me!--who’s motoring down by appointment and whom I think I should be here to receive; as well as a little, I confess, in the hope of a glimpse of Lady Grace: if you can perhaps imagine _that!_” “I can imagine it perfectly,” said Lady Sandgate, whom evidently no perceptions of that general order ever cost a strain. “It quite sticks out of you, and every one moreover has for some time past been waiting to see. But you haven’t then,” she added, “come from town?” “No, I’m for three days at Chanter with my mother; whom, as she kindly lent me her car, I should have rather liked to bring.” Lady Sandgate left the unsaid, in this connection, languish no longer than was decent. “But whom you doubtless had to leave, by her preference, just settling down to bridge.” “Oh, to sit down would imply that my mother at some moment of the day gets up----!” “Which the Duchess never does?” --Lady Sand-gate only asked to be allowed to show how she saw it. “She fights to the last, invincible; gathering in the spoils and only routing her friends?” She abounded genially in her privileged vision. “Ah yes--we know something of that!” Lord John, who was a young man of a rambling but not of an idle eye, fixed her an instant with a surprise that was yet not steeped in compassion. “You too then?” She wouldn’t, however, too meanly narrow it down. “Well, in this house generally; where I’m so often made welcome, you see, and where----” “Where,” he broke in at once, “your jolly good footing quite sticks out of _you_, perhaps you’ll let me say!” She clearly didn’t mind his seeing her ask herself how she should deal with so much rather juvenile intelligence; and indeed she could only decide to deal quite simply. “You can’t say more than I feel--and am proud to feel!--at being of comfort when they’re worried.” This but fed the light flame of his easy perception--which lighted for him, if she would, all the facts equally. “And they’re worried now, you imply, because my terrible mother is capable of heavy gains and of making a great noise if she isn’t paid? I ought to mind speaking of that truth,” he went on as with a practised glance in the direction of delicacy; “but I think I should like you to know that I myself am not a bit ignorant of why it has made such an impression here.” Lady Sandgate forestalled his knowledge. “Because poor Kitty Imber--who should either never touch a card or else learn to suffer in silence, as I’ve had to, goodness knows!--has thrown herself, with her impossible big debt, upon her father? whom she thinks herself entitled to ‘look to’ even more as a lovely young widow with a good jointure than she formerly did as the mere most beautiful daughter at home.” She had put the picture a shade interrogatively, but this was as nothing to the note of free inquiry in Lord John’s reply. “You mean that our lovely young widows--to say nothing of lovely young wives--ought by this time to have made out, in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of her gaming debts--to say nothing of others!--and wishing to have at least those wiped out in the interest of her reputation? Exactly so,” he went on before she could meet it with a diplomatic ambiguity; “and just that, I assure you, is a large part of the reason I like to come here--since I personally don’t come with any such associations.” “Not the association of bankruptcy--no; as you represent the payee!” The young man appeared to regard this imputation for a moment almost as a liberty taken. “How do you know so well, Lady Sandgate, what I represent?” She bethought herself--but briefly and bravely. “Well, don’t you represent, by your own admission, certain fond aspirations? Don’t you represent the belief--very natural, I grant--that more than _one_ perverse and extravagant flower will be unlikely on such a fine healthy old stem; and, consistently with that, the hope of arranging with our admirable host here that he shall lend a helpful hand to your commending yourself to dear Grace?” nan “treatment” by which his negative nose had been enabled to look important and his meagre mouth to smile its spareness away. He had pleasant but hard little eyes--they glittered, handsomely, without promise--and a neatness, a coolness and an ease, a clear instinct for making point take, on his behalf, the place of weight and immunity that of capacity, which represented somehow the art of living at a high pitch and yet at a low cost. There was that in his satisfied air which still suggested sharp wants--and this was withal the ambiguity; for the temper of these appetites or views was certainly, you would have concluded, not such as always to sacrifice to form. If he really, for instance, wanted Lady Grace, the passion or the sense of his interest in it would scarce have been considerately irritable. “May I ask what you mean,” he inquired of Lady Sandgate, “by the question of my ‘arranging’?” “I mean that you’re the very clever son of a very clever mother.” “Oh, I’m less clever than you think,” he replied-- “if you really think it of me at all; and mamma’s a good sight cleverer!” “Than I think?” Lady Sandgate echoed. “Why, she’s the person in all our world I would gladly most resemble--for her general ability to put what she wants through.” But she at once added: “That is _if_--!” pausing on it with a smile. “If what then?” “Well, if I could be absolutely certain to have all in her kinds of cleverness without exception--and to have them,” said Lady Sandgate, “to the very end.” He definitely, he almost contemptuously declined to follow her. “The very end of what?” She took her choice as amid all the wonderful directions there might be, and then seemed both to risk and to reserve something. “Say of her so wonderfully successful _general_ career.” It doubtless, however, warranted him in appearing to cut insinuations short. “When you’re as clever as she you’ll be as good.” To which he subjoined: “You don’t begin to have the opportunity of knowing how good she is.” This pronouncement, to whatever comparative obscurity it might appear to relegate her, his interlocutress had to take--he was so prompt with a more explicit challenge. “What is it exactly that you suppose yourself to know?” Lady Sandgate had after a moment, in her supreme good humour, decided to take everything. “I always proceed on the assumption that I know everything, because that makes people tell me.” “It wouldn’t make we,” he quite rang out, “if I didn’t want to! But as it happens,” he allowed, “there’s a question it would be convenient to me to put to you. You must be, with your charming unconventional relation with him, extremely in Theign’s confidence.” She waited a little as for more. “Is that your question--_whether_ I am?” “No, but if you are you’ll the better answer it” She had no objection then to answering it beautifully. “We’re the best friends in the world; he has been really my providence, as a lone woman with almost nobody and nothing of her own, and I feel my footing here, as so frequent and yet so discreet a visitor, simply perfect But I’m happy to say that--for my pleasure when I’m really curious--this doesn’t close to me the sweet resource of occasionally guessing things.” “Then I hope you’ve ground for believing that if I go the right way about it he’s likely to listen to me.” Lady Sandgate measured her | down would imply that my mother at some moment of the day gets up----!” “Which the Duchess never does?” --Lady Sand-gate only asked to be allowed to show how she saw it. “She fights to the last, invincible; gathering in the spoils and only routing her friends?” She abounded genially in her privileged vision. “Ah yes--we know something of that!” Lord John, who was a young man of a rambling but not of an idle eye, fixed her an instant with a surprise that was yet not steeped in compassion. “You too then?” She wouldn’t, however, too meanly narrow it down. “Well, in this house generally; where I’m so often made welcome, you see, and where----” “Where,” he broke in at once, “your jolly good footing quite sticks out of _you_, perhaps you’ll let me say!” She clearly didn’t mind his seeing her ask herself how she should deal with so much rather juvenile intelligence; and indeed she could only decide to deal quite simply. “You can’t say more than I feel--and am proud to feel!--at being of comfort when they’re worried.” This but fed the light flame of his easy perception--which lighted for him, if she would, all the facts equally. “And they’re worried now, you imply, because my terrible mother is capable of heavy gains and of making a great noise if she isn’t paid? I ought to mind speaking of that truth,” he went on as with a practised glance in the direction of delicacy; “but I think I should like you to know that I myself am not a bit ignorant of why it has made such an impression here.” Lady Sandgate forestalled his knowledge. “Because poor Kitty Imber--who should either never touch a card or else learn to suffer in silence, as I’ve had to, goodness knows!--has thrown herself, with her impossible big debt, upon her father? whom she thinks herself entitled to ‘look to’ even more as a lovely young widow with a good jointure than she formerly did as the mere most beautiful daughter at home.” She had put the picture a shade interrogatively, but this was as nothing to the note of free inquiry in Lord John’s reply. “You mean that our lovely young widows--to say nothing of lovely young wives--ought by this time to have made out, in predicaments, how to turn round?” His temporary hostess, even with his eyes on her, appeared to decide after a moment not wholly to disown his thought. But she smiled for it. “Well, in that set----!” “My mother’s set?” However, if she could smile he could laugh. “I’m much obliged!”<|quote|>“Oh,”</|quote|>she qualified, “I don’t criticise her Grace; but the ways and traditions and tone of this house----” “Make it” --he took her sense straight from her-- “the house in England where one feels most the false note of a dishevelled and bankrupt elder daughter breaking in with a list of her gaming debts--to say nothing of others!--and wishing to have at least those wiped out in the interest of her reputation? Exactly so,” he went on before she could meet it with a diplomatic ambiguity; “and just that, I assure you, is a large part of the reason I like to come here--since I personally don’t come with any such associations.” “Not the association of bankruptcy--no; as you represent the payee!” The young man appeared to regard this imputation for a moment almost as a liberty taken. “How do you know so well, Lady Sandgate, what I represent?” She bethought herself--but briefly and bravely. “Well, don’t you represent, by your own admission, certain fond aspirations? Don’t you represent the belief--very natural, I grant--that more than _one_ perverse and extravagant flower will be unlikely on such a fine healthy old stem; and, consistently with that, the hope of arranging with our admirable host here that he shall lend a helpful hand to your commending yourself to dear Grace?” nan “treatment” by which his negative nose had been enabled to look important and his meagre mouth to smile its spareness away. He had pleasant but hard little eyes--they glittered, handsomely, without promise--and a neatness, a coolness and an ease, a clear instinct for making point take, on his behalf, the place of weight and immunity that of capacity, which represented somehow the art of living at a high pitch and yet at a low cost. There was that in his satisfied air which still suggested sharp wants--and this was withal the ambiguity; for the temper of these appetites or views was certainly, you would have concluded, not such as always to sacrifice to form. If he really, for instance, wanted Lady Grace, the passion or the sense of his interest in it would scarce have been considerately irritable. “May I ask what you mean,” he inquired of Lady Sandgate, “by the question of my ‘arranging’?” “I mean that you’re the very clever son of a very clever mother.” “Oh, I’m less clever than you think,” he replied-- “if you really think it of me at all; and mamma’s a good sight cleverer!” “Than I think?” Lady Sandgate echoed. “Why, she’s the person in all our world I would gladly most resemble--for her general ability to put what she wants through.” But she at once added: “That is _if_--!” pausing on it with a smile. “If what then?” “Well, if I could be absolutely certain to have all in her kinds of cleverness without exception--and to have them,” said Lady | The Outcry |
"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." | Margaret | You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: | better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done | they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She | we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing | "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and | I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who | didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, not five minutes; but there s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to find the man some work in your office." "What are his qualifications?" "I don t know. He s a clerk." "How old?" "Twenty-five, perhaps." "What s his name?" "Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. "Where was he before?" "Dempster s Bank." "Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing. "They reduced their staff." "All right; I ll see him." It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can t influence her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself." Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the harem. "I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don t know whether he s qualified." "I ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn t be taken as a precedent." "No, of course--of course--" "I can t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer." "I can promise you he s the last. He--he s rather a special case." "Proteges always are." She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. "Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be starting." On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover s arm, she felt that she was having her share. To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had left her there to finish | "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."<|quote|>"Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired."</|quote|>As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are they out bean-feasting?" "No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about them." She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later on? Tell me now. No time like the present." "Shall I?" "If it isn t a long story." "Oh, | Howards End |
"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," | Jane | assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear | Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate | I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the | Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him." "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing | aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. "You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible." "This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him." "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?" "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I tell you all." "What do you mean?" "Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry." "My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?" "It has been coming on | remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted. CHAPTER XVII. "My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing else, awakened a suspicion of the truth. The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy, than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. "You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible." "This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him." "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?" "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I tell you all." "What do you mean?" "Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry." "My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?" "It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley." Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing farther to wish. "Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it, to another, not to you." Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. | that it was time to be at home. "What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which introduced the discussion of _their_ affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it. "I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth. "Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen." "That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case. "On the evening before my going to London," said he "I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs, absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together." Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend. "Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?" "From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection." "And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him." "It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine, made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now." Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted. CHAPTER XVII. "My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered the room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing else, awakened a suspicion of the truth. The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy, than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. "You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible." "This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him." "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?" "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I tell you all." "What do you mean?" "Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry." "My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?" "It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley." Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing farther to wish. "Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it, to another, not to you." Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversation. * * * * * "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way." Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet. As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mr. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?" "I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view." "It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Wont it, Kitty?" Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying, "I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience." During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would | lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather _knew_ that she was happy, than _felt_ herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a _dislike_ which not all his fortune and consequence might do away. At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here. "You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!--engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible." "This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged." Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him." "You know nothing of the matter. _That_ is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself." Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.<|quote|>"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,"</|quote|>cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would--I do congratulate you--but are you certain? forgive the question--are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?" "There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?" "Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?" "Oh, yes! You will only think I feel _more_ than I ought to do, when I tell you all." "What do you mean?" "Why, I must confess, that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry." "My dearest sister, now _be_ be serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?" "It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley." Another intreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing farther to wish. "Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it, to another, not to you." Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her, his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversation. * * * * * "Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way." Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should | Pride And Prejudice |
"else people wouldn't do it so much." | The Genial Passenger | sounds," conceded the genial passenger,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>The ship, so far as | it's more interesting than it sounds," conceded the genial passenger,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>The ship, so far as any consideration of comfort had | 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 | 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 | 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 | 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 about those dogs," said the genial passenger, arriving at his elbow. "I'll ask the purser to-morrow. We might exercise them a bit. Kind of mournful the way they go on." * * * * * Next day they were in the 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 | 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. "We'd better go up and lunch," 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 about those dogs," said the genial passenger, arriving at his elbow. "I'll ask the purser to-morrow. We might exercise them a bit. Kind of mournful the way they go on." * * * * * Next day they were in the 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 | 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. "We'd better go up and lunch," 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,<|quote|>"else people wouldn't do it so much."</|quote|>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 about those dogs," said the genial passenger, arriving at his elbow. "I'll ask the purser to-morrow. We might exercise them a bit. Kind of mournful the way they go on." * * * * * Next day they were in the 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 | A Handful Of Dust |
"Very good. I've done it." | Mr. Bumble | long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" | years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." | should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em | mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!" "The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; | too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!" "The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is | that character I saw you. What are you now?" "Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master of the workhouse, young man!" "You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?" resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see." "I suppose, a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, "is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner." The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!" "The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had | The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance. It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence. "Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?" "Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr." Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank. "I see you were not," said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; "or you have known my name. You don't know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it." "I meant no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble, majestically. "And have done none," said the stranger. Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger. "I have seen you before, I think?" said he. "You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?" "I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; "porochial beadle." "Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?" "Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master of the workhouse, young man!" "You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?" resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see." "I suppose, a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, "is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner." The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!" "The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that he rose, as if to depart. But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry. "How can I find her?" said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the intelligence. "Only through me," rejoined Mr. Bumble. "When?" cried the stranger, hastily. "To-morrow," rejoined Bumble. "At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in characters that betrayed his agitation; "at nine in the evening, bring her to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your interest." With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the following night. On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to ask it. "What do you want?" cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched him on the arm. "Following me?" "Only to ask a question," said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. "What name am I to ask for?" "Monks!" rejoined the man; and strode hastily away. CHAPTER XXXVIII. CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half, or thereabouts, and erected | he had not mistaken his man; then rang the bell. "Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" "Not too strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough. "You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger, drily. The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a steaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. Bumble's eyes. "Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. "I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with." As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money should be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on: "Carry your memory back let me see twelve years, last winter." "It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble.<|quote|>"Very good. I've done it."</|quote|>"The scene, the workhouse." "Good!" "And the time, night." "Yes." "And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!" "The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the stranger's excited description. "Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there." "A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly. "A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a coffin-maker I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed." "Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of course. There wasn't a obstinater young rascal" "It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. Where is she?" "Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway." "What do you mean?" demanded the stranger, sternly. "That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble. The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For some time, | Oliver Twist |
said his friend with a stern simplicity, | No speaker | which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, | and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for | in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly | forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust | Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on | Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?" The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile. "How long did it take you?" The Professor did not move. "Confound you, can't you answer?" called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not. Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor | no need at all to disguise myself, I still can't help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, Buck up, old cock!' It would bring tears to your eyes." "It does," said Syme; "but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried." The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily. "You are a very clever fellow," he said, "it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face," and he sank his bald brow in his two hands. Then he said in a low voice "Can you play the piano?" "Yes," said Syme in simple wonder, "I'm supposed to have a good touch." Then, as the other did not speak, he added "I trust the great cloud is lifted." After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands "It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter." "Thank you," said Syme, "you flatter me." "Listen to me," said the other, "and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?" The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile. "How long did it take you?" The Professor did not move. "Confound you, can't you answer?" called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not. Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside. Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message "I will only talk like this. We must get used to it." He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief "All right. Let's get out to breakfast." They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard. They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron. They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters. At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and tragic dawn lifting itself laboriously over London. From each the innumerable roofs of slate looked like the leaden surges of a grey, troubled sea after rain. Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past. Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream. As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series. But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion. Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself. By the time they reached Dr. Bull's landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull's bare garret it was full of light. Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory | has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary's disease. Don't you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull." "And you think," said Syme, "that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?" "Don't be an ass," said his mentor. "I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers like this, see," and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table "B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require." Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme. "We must have several word-signs," said Syme seriously "words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is coeval'. What's yours?" "Do stop playing the goat," said the Professor plaintively. "You don't know how serious this is." "Lush' too," said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, "we must have lush' word applied to grass, don't you know?" "Do you imagine," asked the Professor furiously, "that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?" "There are several ways in which the subject could be approached," said Syme reflectively, "and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...'" "Do you understand," said the other, "that this is a tragedy?" "Perfectly," replied Syme; "always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed" "Syme,"<|quote|>said his friend with a stern simplicity,</|quote|>"go to bed!" Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed. Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold. "Well," said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, "I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?" The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question. "I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I'm considered good at these things, and it was a good hour's grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?" The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile. "How long did it take you?" The Professor did not move. "Confound you, can't you answer?" called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not. Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man's silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside. Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message "I will only talk like this. We must get used to it." He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief "All right. Let's get out to | The Man Who Was Thursday |
he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling. | No speaker | you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they | I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my | asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions | I came upon the sheep just setting out for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep? whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and | pleasure. There was not a man on the place; grannie was in a great stew; so I volunteered my services. At first she would not hear of such a thing, but eventually consented. With many injunctions to conduct myself with proper stiffness, I started early on Monday morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a holland riding-skirt, and a big straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, was accompanied by a wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. I sang and cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to be reserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep? whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of encounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic description of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had been boss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and a gentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him down as a scapegrace, for he had all the winning pleasant manner of a ne’er-do-well. At noon—a nice, blazing, dusty noon—we halted within a mile of Caddagat for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but | so irritatingly cool and matter-of-fact that I wished for the three months to pass so that I might be done with him, as I had come to the conclusion that he was barren of emotion or passion of any kind. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Sweet Seventeen Monday arrived—last day of November and seventeenth anniversary of my birth—and I celebrated it in a manner which I capitally enjoyed. It was the time of the annual muster at Cummabella—a cattle-station seventeen miles eastward from Caddagat—and all our men were there assisting. Word had been sent that a considerable number of beasts among those yarded bore the impress of the Bossier brand on their hides; so on Sunday afternoon uncle Jay-Jay had also proceeded thither to be in readiness for the final drafting early on Monday morning. This left us manless, as Frank Hawden, being incapacitated with a dislocated wrist, was spending a few weeks in Gool-Gool until he should be fit for work again. Uncle had not been gone an hour when a drover appeared to report that twenty thousand sheep would pass through on the morrow. Grass was precious. It would not do to let the sheep spread and dawdle at their drovers’ pleasure. There was not a man on the place; grannie was in a great stew; so I volunteered my services. At first she would not hear of such a thing, but eventually consented. With many injunctions to conduct myself with proper stiffness, I started early on Monday morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a holland riding-skirt, and a big straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, was accompanied by a wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. I sang and cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to be reserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep? whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of encounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic description of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had been boss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and a gentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him down as a scapegrace, for he had all the winning pleasant manner of a ne’er-do-well. At noon—a nice, blazing, dusty noon—we halted within a mile of Caddagat for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to have it with the drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the tea, which we drank out of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off tin plates as the completion of the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little distance from the men. Tea boiled in a billy at a bush fire has a deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed my birthday lunch immensely. Leaving the cook to collect the things and put them in the spring-cart, we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses and chewing gum-leaves as we went. When the last of the sheep got off the Caddagat run it was nearing two o’clock. Mr Ledwood and I shook hands at parting, each expressing a wish that we might meet again some day. I turned and rode homewards. I looked back and saw the drover gazing after me. I waved my hand; he raised his hat and smiled, displaying his teeth, a gleam of white in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to him; he bowed low; I whistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at | way. On returning from her walk grannie came to my room, brought me some preachy books to read, and held out to me the privilege of saying I was sorry, and being restored to my usual place in the society of the household. “Grannie, I cannot say I am sorry and promise to reform, for my conscience does not reproach me in the least. I had no evil—not even a violation of manners—in my intentions; but I am sorry that I vexed you,” I said. “Vexing me is not the sinful part of it. It is your unrepentant heart that fills me with fears for your future. I will leave you here to think by yourself. The only redeeming point about you is, you do not pretend to be sorry when you are not.” The dear old lady shook her head sorrowfully as she departed. The afternoon soon ran away, as I turned to my bookcase for entertainment and had that beautiful ring to admire. I heard them come in to tea, and I thought Harold had gone till I heard uncle Jay-Jay address him: “Joe Archer told me you ran into a clothes-line on race-night, and ever since then mother has kept up a daddy of a fuss about ours. We’ve got props about a hundred feet long, and if you weren’t in the know you’d think we had a telegraph wire to old St Peter up above.” I wondered what Harold thought of the woman he had selected as his future wife being shut up for being a “naughty girl” . The situation amused me exceedingly. About nine o’clock he knocked at my window and said: “Never mind, Syb. I tried to get you off, but it was no go. Old people often have troublesome straitlaced ideas. It will blow over by tomorrow.” I did not answer; so he passed on with firm regular footfall, and presently I heard his horse’s hoof-beats dying away in the darkness, and the closing and locking of doors around me as the household retired for the night. During the following fortnight I saw Harold a good many times at cricket-matches, hare-drives, and so forth, but he did not take any particular notice of me. I flirted and frolicked with my other young men friends, but he did not care. I did not find him an ardent or a jealous lover. He was so irritatingly cool and matter-of-fact that I wished for the three months to pass so that I might be done with him, as I had come to the conclusion that he was barren of emotion or passion of any kind. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Sweet Seventeen Monday arrived—last day of November and seventeenth anniversary of my birth—and I celebrated it in a manner which I capitally enjoyed. It was the time of the annual muster at Cummabella—a cattle-station seventeen miles eastward from Caddagat—and all our men were there assisting. Word had been sent that a considerable number of beasts among those yarded bore the impress of the Bossier brand on their hides; so on Sunday afternoon uncle Jay-Jay had also proceeded thither to be in readiness for the final drafting early on Monday morning. This left us manless, as Frank Hawden, being incapacitated with a dislocated wrist, was spending a few weeks in Gool-Gool until he should be fit for work again. Uncle had not been gone an hour when a drover appeared to report that twenty thousand sheep would pass through on the morrow. Grass was precious. It would not do to let the sheep spread and dawdle at their drovers’ pleasure. There was not a man on the place; grannie was in a great stew; so I volunteered my services. At first she would not hear of such a thing, but eventually consented. With many injunctions to conduct myself with proper stiffness, I started early on Monday morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a holland riding-skirt, and a big straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, was accompanied by a wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. I sang and cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to be reserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep? whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of encounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic description of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had been boss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and a gentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him down as a scapegrace, for he had all the winning pleasant manner of a ne’er-do-well. At noon—a nice, blazing, dusty noon—we halted within a mile of Caddagat for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to have it with the drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the tea, which we drank out of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off tin plates as the completion of the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little distance from the men. Tea boiled in a billy at a bush fire has a deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed my birthday lunch immensely. Leaving the cook to collect the things and put them in the spring-cart, we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses and chewing gum-leaves as we went. When the last of the sheep got off the Caddagat run it was nearing two o’clock. Mr Ledwood and I shook hands at parting, each expressing a wish that we might meet again some day. I turned and rode homewards. I looked back and saw the drover gazing after me. I waved my hand; he raised his hat and smiled, displaying his teeth, a gleam of white in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to him; he bowed low; I whistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at the front gate at 2.30 p.m., a dusty, heated, tired girl. Grannie came out to question me regarding the sex, age, condition, and species of the sheep, what was their destination, whether they were in search of grass or were for sale, had they spread or eaten much grass, and had the men been civil? When I had satisfactorily informed her on all these points, she bade me have something to eat, to bathe and dress, and gave me a holiday for the remainder of the day. My hair was grey with dust, so I washed all over, arrayed myself in a cool white dress, and throwing myself in a squatter’s chair in the veranda, spread my hair over the back of it to dry. Copies of Gordon, Kendall, and Lawson were on my lap, but I was too physically content and comfortable to indulge in even these, my sworn friends and companions. I surrendered myself to the mere joy of being alive. How the sunlight blazed and danced in the roadway—the leaves of the gum-trees gleaming in it like a myriad gems! A cloud of white, which I knew to be cockatoos, circled over the distant hilltop. Nearer they wheeled until I could hear their discordant screech. The thermometer on the wall rested at 104 degrees despite the dense shade thrown on the broad old veranda by the foliage of creepers, shrubs, and trees. The gurgling rush of the creek, the scent of the flower-laden garden, and the stamp, stamp of a horse in the orchard as he attempted to rid himself of tormenting flies, filled my senses. The warmth was delightful. Summer is heavenly, I said—life is a joy. Aunt Helen’s slender fingers looked artistic among some pretty fancy-work upon which she was engaged. Bright butterflies flitted round the garden, and thousands of bees droned lazily among the flowers. I closed my eyes—my being filled with the beauty of it all. I could hear grannie’s pen fly over the paper as she made out a list of Christmas supplies on a table near me. “Helen, I suppose a hundredweight of currants will be sufficient?” “Yes; I should think so.” “Seven dozen yards of unbleached calico be enough?” “Yes; plenty.” “Which tea-service did you order?” “Number two.” “Do you or Sybylla want anything extra?” “Yes; parasols, gloves, and some books.” “Books! Can I get them at Hordern’s?” “Yes.” Grannie’s | Uncle had not been gone an hour when a drover appeared to report that twenty thousand sheep would pass through on the morrow. Grass was precious. It would not do to let the sheep spread and dawdle at their drovers’ pleasure. There was not a man on the place; grannie was in a great stew; so I volunteered my services. At first she would not hear of such a thing, but eventually consented. With many injunctions to conduct myself with proper stiffness, I started early on Monday morning. I was clad in a cool blouse, a holland riding-skirt, and a big straw hat; was seated on a big bay horse, was accompanied by a wonderful sheep-dog, and carried a long heavy stock-whip. I sang and cracked my stock-whip as I cantered along, quite forgetting to be reserved and proper. Presently I came upon the sheep just setting out for their day’s tramp, with a black boy ahead of them, of whom I inquired which was the boss. He pointed towards a man at the rear wearing a donkey-supper hat. I made my way through the sheep in his direction, and asked if he were in charge of them. On being answered in the affirmative, I informed him that I was Mr Bossier’s niece, and, as the men were otherwise engaged, I would see the sheep through. “That’s all right, miss. I will look out that you don’t have much trouble,”<|quote|>he replied, politely raising his hat, while a look of amusement played on his face. He rode away, and shouted to his men to keep the flock strictly within bounds and make good travelling.</|quote|>“Right you are, boss,” they answered; and returning to my side he told me his name was George Ledwood, and made some remarks about the great drought and so on, while we rode in the best places to keep out of the dust and in the shade. I asked questions such as whence came the sheep? whither were they bound? and how long had they been on the road? And having exhausted these orthodox remarks, we fell a-talking in dead earnest without the least restraint. I listened with interest to stories of weeks and weeks spent beneath the sun and stars while crossing widths of saltbush country, mulga and myall scrubs, of encounters with blacks in Queensland, and was favoured with a graphic description of a big strike among the shearers when the narrator had been boss-of-the-board out beyond Bourke. He spoke as though well educated, and a gentleman—as drovers often are. Why, then, was he on the road? I put him down as a scapegrace, for he had all the winning pleasant manner of a ne’er-do-well. At noon—a nice, blazing, dusty noon—we halted within a mile of Caddagat for lunch. I could have easily ridden home for mine, but preferred to have it with the drovers for fun. The men boiled the billy and made the tea, which we drank out of tin pots, with tinned fish and damper off tin plates as the completion of the menu, Mr Ledwood and I at a little distance from the men. Tea boiled in a billy at a bush fire has a deliciously aromatic flavour, and I enjoyed my birthday lunch immensely. Leaving the cook to collect the things and put them in the spring-cart, we continued on our way, lazily lolling on our horses and chewing gum-leaves as we went. When the last of the sheep got off the Caddagat run it was nearing two o’clock. Mr Ledwood and I shook hands at parting, each expressing a wish that we might meet again some day. I turned and rode homewards. I looked back and saw the drover gazing after me. I waved my hand; he raised his hat and smiled, displaying his teeth, a gleam of white in his sun-browned face. I kissed my hand to him; he bowed low; I whistled to my dog; he resumed his way behind the crawling sheep; I cantered home quickly and dismounted at the front gate at 2.30 p.m., a dusty, heated, tired girl. Grannie came out to question me regarding the sex, age, condition, and species of the sheep, what was their destination, whether they were in search of grass | My Brilliant Career |
and deepened the blush to crimson. | No speaker | mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t | "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little | yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; | cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. "Nothing" said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; doesn t she, Frieda?" "I don t feel grave, that s all I can say; you re going quite on the wrong tack." "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can bear witness to that. She disagrees--" "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno entering the hall." | Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter--and very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. "But you will be careful, won t you?" she exhorted. "Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful." "And Helen must be careful, too." "Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. "Nothing" said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; doesn t she, Frieda?" "I don t feel grave, that s all I can say; you re going quite on the wrong tack." "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can bear witness to that. She disagrees--" "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno entering the hall." For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: "Did you say the Mathesons flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the | to be interested in him has died, and what else matters? I look on that disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the killing of a nerve in Helen. It s dead, and she ll never be troubled with it again. The only things that matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party--we can do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable; but the other thing, the one important thing--never again. Don t you see?" Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable statement--that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. "I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. I didn t tell you at the time--it might have made you angry, and you had enough to worry you--but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and apologised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She didn t answer it." "How very rude!" "I wonder. Or was it sensible?" "No, Margaret, most rude." "In either case one can class it as reassuring." Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter--and very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. "But you will be careful, won t you?" she exhorted. "Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful." "And Helen must be careful, too." "Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. "Nothing" said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; doesn t she, Frieda?" "I don t feel grave, that s all I can say; you re going quite on the wrong tack." "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can bear witness to that. She disagrees--" "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno entering the hall." For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: "Did you say the Mathesons flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the woman who laced too tightly was Matheson." "Come, Helen," said her cousin. "Go, Helen," said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind." "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda ll hear you, and she can be so tiresome." "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. "I knew she d mind--and I m sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you that motor drive--well, you d have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don t know what you are in for! They re all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There s Mrs. Wilcox--I ve seen her. There s Paul. There s Evie, who is a minx. There s Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." "I knew it. And there s Mr. Wilcox." "It s a shame to call his face copper colour," complained Margaret. "He | Murano. It occurred to him, as he glided over the whispering lagoons, that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the folly, nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery of such as Leonard. CHAPTER VII "Oh, Margaret," cried her aunt next morning, "such a most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get you alone." The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken furnished by the Wilcox family, "coming up, no doubt, in the hope of getting into London society." That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats, that she watched their every mutation with unwearying care. In theory she despised them--they took away that old-world look--they cut off the sun--flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had been known, she found her visits to Wickham Place twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen, and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of years. She would stroll across and make friends with the porters, and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for example: "What! a hundred and twenty for a basement? You ll never get it!" And they would answer: "One can but try, madam." The passenger lifts, the arrangement for coals (a great temptation for a dishonest porter), were all familiar matters to her, and perhaps a relief from the politico-economical-esthetic atmosphere that reigned at the Schlegels. Margaret received the information calmly, and did not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen s life. "Oh, but Helen isn t a girl with no interests," she explained. "She has plenty of other things and other people to think about. She made a false start with the Wilcoxes, and she ll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to do with them." "For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. Helen ll HAVE to have something more to do with them, now that they re all opposite. She may meet that Paul in the street. She cannot very well not bow." "Of course she must bow. But look here; let s do the flowers. I was going to say, the will to be interested in him has died, and what else matters? I look on that disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the killing of a nerve in Helen. It s dead, and she ll never be troubled with it again. The only things that matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party--we can do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable; but the other thing, the one important thing--never again. Don t you see?" Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable statement--that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. "I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. I didn t tell you at the time--it might have made you angry, and you had enough to worry you--but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and apologised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She didn t answer it." "How very rude!" "I wonder. Or was it sensible?" "No, Margaret, most rude." "In either case one can class it as reassuring." Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter--and very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. "But you will be careful, won t you?" she exhorted. "Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful." "And Helen must be careful, too." "Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. "Nothing" said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; doesn t she, Frieda?" "I don t feel grave, that s all I can say; you re going quite on the wrong tack." "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can bear witness to that. She disagrees--" "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno entering the hall." For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: "Did you say the Mathesons flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the woman who laced too tightly was Matheson." "Come, Helen," said her cousin. "Go, Helen," said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind." "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda ll hear you, and she can be so tiresome." "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. "I knew she d mind--and I m sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you that motor drive--well, you d have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don t know what you are in for! They re all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There s Mrs. Wilcox--I ve seen her. There s Paul. There s Evie, who is a minx. There s Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." "I knew it. And there s Mr. Wilcox." "It s a shame to call his face copper colour," complained Margaret. "He has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age." Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. "Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is dead in her really, so there s no need for plans." "It s as well to be prepared." "No--it s as well not to be prepared." "Why?" "Because--" Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price of stock: those who attempt human relations must adopt another method, or fail. "Because I d sooner risk it," was her lame conclusion. "But imagine the evenings," exclaimed her aunt, pointing to the Mansions with the spout of the watering can. "Turn the electric light on here or there, and it s almost the same room. One evening they may forget to draw their blinds down, and you ll see them; and the next, you yours, and they ll see you. Impossible to sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants, or even speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you d rather risk it." "I hope to risk things all my life." "Oh, Margaret, most dangerous." "But after all," she continued with a smile, "there s never any great risk as long as you have money." "Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!" "Money pads the edges of things," said Miss Schlegel. "God help those who have none." "But this is something quite new!" said Mrs. Munt, who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts, and was especially attracted by those that are portable. "New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its very existence. It s only when we see some one near us tottering that we realise | Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter--and very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. "But you will be careful, won t you?" she exhorted. "Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful." "And Helen must be careful, too." "Careful over what?" cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. "Nothing" said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. "Careful over what, Aunt Juley?" Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. "It is only that a certain family, whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons--where the plants are in the balcony." Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, "What, Helen, you don t mind them coming, do you?"<|quote|>and deepened the blush to crimson.</|quote|>"Of course I don t mind," said Helen a little crossly. "It is that you and Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there s nothing to be grave about at all." "I m not grave," protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. "Well, you look grave; doesn t she, Frieda?" "I don t feel grave, that s all I can say; you re going quite on the wrong tack." "No, she does not feel grave," echoed Mrs. Munt. "I can bear witness to that. She disagrees--" "Hark!" interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno entering the hall." For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: "Did you say the Mathesons flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the name of the woman who laced too tightly was Matheson." "Come, Helen," said her cousin. "Go, Helen," said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same breath: "Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind." "Oh, hush!" breathed Margaret. "Frieda ll hear you, and she can be so tiresome." "She minds," persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. "I knew she d mind--and I m sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you that motor drive--well, you d have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don t know what you are in for! They re all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There s Mrs. Wilcox--I ve seen her. There s Paul. There s Evie, who is a minx. There s Charles--I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?" "Mr. Wilcox, possibly." "I knew it. And there s Mr. Wilcox." "It s a shame to call his face copper colour," complained Margaret. | Howards End |
"I don t care an iota what people think!" | Tibby | people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual | grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it | thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man | t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this." "What is the sum?" "Five thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn t enough." He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks | But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. "You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don t see what I m to do." "Then there s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. There remains the question of compensation." "Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?" "This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. The compensation--I do not see who is to pay it if I don t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this." "What is the sum?" "Five thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn t enough." He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally. "I didn t expect you to understand me." "I? I understand nobody." "But you ll do it?" "Apparently." "I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account to-morrow." He walked with her to | be ruined twice. Natural! Could you have contained yourself?" "It is certainly a very bad business," said Tibby. His reply seemed to calm his sister. "I was afraid that I saw it out of proportion. But you are right outside it, and you must know. In a day or two--or perhaps a week--take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in your hands." She concluded her charge. "The facts as they touch Meg are all before you," she added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibby s attention wandered when "personal relations" came under discussion. Ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to say that the importance of human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. "You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don t see what I m to do." "Then there s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. There remains the question of compensation." "Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?" "This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. The compensation--I do not see who is to pay it if I don t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this." "What is the sum?" "Five thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn t enough." He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally. "I didn t expect you to understand me." "I? I understand nobody." "But you ll do it?" "Apparently." "I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account to-morrow." He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was the phantom, how faint its claim to represent England. Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing; the Basts were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made other men curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked her once why she had taken the Basts right into the heart of Evie s wedding. She stopped like a frightened animal and said, "Does that seem to you so odd?" Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on the walk home. It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was terrified at Helen s flight, and he had to say that she had called in at Oxford. Then she said: "Did she seem worried at any rumour about Henry?" He answered, | tell her that the man she is going to marry has misconducted himself. I don t even know whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she does that I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think that I want to ruin her match. I simply don t know what to make of such a thing. I trust your judgment. What would you do?" "I gather he has had a mistress," said Tibby. Helen flushed with shame and anger. "And ruined two people s lives. And goes about saying that personal actions count for nothing, and there always will be rich and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich out in Cyprus--I don t wish to make him worse than he is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet him. But there it is. They met. He goes his way and she goes hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women?" He conceded that it was a bad business. "They end in two ways: Either they sink till the lunatic asylums and the workhouses are full of them, and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the papers complaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a boy into marriage before it is too late. She--I can t blame her." "But this isn t all," she continued after a long pause, during which the landlady served them with coffee. "I come now to the business that took us to Oniton. We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox s advice, the man throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one, from which he is dismissed. There are certain excuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg herself admitted. It is only common justice that he should employ the man himself. But he meets the woman, and, like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get rid of them. He makes Meg write. Two notes came from her late that evening--one for me, one for Leonard, dismissing him with barely a reason. I couldn t understand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her to get rooms, and was still speaking about him when Leonard came back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought it natural he should be ruined twice. Natural! Could you have contained yourself?" "It is certainly a very bad business," said Tibby. His reply seemed to calm his sister. "I was afraid that I saw it out of proportion. But you are right outside it, and you must know. In a day or two--or perhaps a week--take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in your hands." She concluded her charge. "The facts as they touch Meg are all before you," she added; and Tibby sighed and felt it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should be empanelled to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibby s attention wandered when "personal relations" came under discussion. Ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to say that the importance of human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. "You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don t see what I m to do." "Then there s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. There remains the question of compensation." "Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?" "This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. The compensation--I do not see who is to pay it if I don t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this." "What is the sum?" "Five thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn t enough." He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally. "I didn t expect you to understand me." "I? I understand nobody." "But you ll do it?" "Apparently." "I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account to-morrow." He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was the phantom, how faint its claim to represent England. Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing; the Basts were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made other men curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked her once why she had taken the Basts right into the heart of Evie s wedding. She stopped like a frightened animal and said, "Does that seem to you so odd?" Her eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed into the figure of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on the walk home. It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties. Margaret summoned him the next day. She was terrified at Helen s flight, and he had to say that she had called in at Oxford. Then she said: "Did she seem worried at any rumour about Henry?" He answered, "Yes." "I knew it was that!" she exclaimed. "I ll write to her." Tibby was relieved. He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen gave him, and stated that he was instructed to forward later on five thousand pounds. An answer came back very civil and quiet in tone--such an answer as Tibby himself would have given. The cheque was returned, the legacy refused, the writer being in no need of money. Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in the fulness of his heart that Leonard Bast seemed somewhat a monumental person after all. Helen s reply was frantic. He was to take no notice. He was to go down at once and say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A scurf of books and china ornaments awaited him. The Basts had just been evicted for not paying their rent, and had wandered no one knew whither. Helen had begun bungling with her money by this time, and had even sold out her shares in the Nottingham and Derby Railway. For some weeks she did nothing. Then she reinvested, and, owing to the good advice of her stockbrokers, became rather richer than she had been before. CHAPTER XXXI Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others--and thus was the death of Wickham Place--the spirit slips before the body perishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and the last van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, they were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end. The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died abroad--an unsatisfactory affair--and as there seemed | of his open mind, he should be empanelled to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had rather too much of them at Wickham Place. Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibby s attention wandered when "personal relations" came under discussion. Ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to say that the importance of human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. "You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don t see what I m to do." "Then there s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. There remains the question of compensation." "Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?" "This part is in confidence," said Helen. "It has nothing to do with Meg, and do not mention it to her. The compensation--I do not see who is to pay it if I don t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this." "What is the sum?" "Five thousand." "Good God alive!" said Tibby, and went crimson. "Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing--to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts of shillings and blankets--making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me extraordinary."<|quote|>"I don t care an iota what people think!"</|quote|>cried he, heated to unusual manliness of diction. "But it s half what you have." "Not nearly half." She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. "I have far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and fifty between two. It isn t enough." He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of bother for him personally. "I didn t expect you to understand me." "I? I understand nobody." "But you ll do it?" "Apparently." "I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account to-morrow." He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose serried beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and | Howards End |
"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning." | Hercule Poirot | had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains | the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely | believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said | relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event | the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so." "Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe." "Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. | acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so." "Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe." "Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, | in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I've got the most beastly headache." "Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the _mal de t te_." He jumped up and took her cup. "No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "_Sacr !_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. _Chut!_ no more now!" We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so." "Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe." "Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution." Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?" Mr. Wells bowed his head. "As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void." "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?" "I do not know. She may have been." "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday." "Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say" her last will.' "Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?" "On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family." "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family we will say Miss Howard, for instance would you be surprised?" "Not in the least." "Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions. I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers. "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity. Poirot smiled. "No." "Then why did you ask?" "Hush!" John Cavendish had turned to Poirot. "Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself." "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled" He did not finish the sentence. "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully." "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession." "There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke. "What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled. "Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there _was_ one." "What do you mean there was one? Where is it now?" "Burnt!" "Burnt?" "Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it. "But possibly this is an old will?" "I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon." "What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men. Poirot turned to John. "If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you." "Oh, of course but I don't see" Poirot raised his hand. "Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please." "Very well." He rang the bell. Dorcas answered it in due course. "Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come | lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate." "Yes, I suppose so." "Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe." "Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses all of us, I mean?" "You, of course and ah er Mr. er Inglethorp." A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: "Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form." "I see." A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?" "Yes." "Then that arrangement will suit you?" "Perfectly." "I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair." "Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room. "I?"<|quote|>"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."</|quote|>"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance." "She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?" "Unfortunately, no." "That is a pity," said John. "A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely. There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again. "Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?" The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied: "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object" "Not at all," interpolated John. "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish." "Was not that pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?" "No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?" | Admiral Croft | girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk | or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied | of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I | of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there | his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other." "Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards | to make a third in a one horse chaise. The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister. The something might be guessed by its effects. "Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs Croft. "Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed, you must." Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other." "Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage. Chapter 11 The time now approached for Lady Russell's return: the day was even fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it. It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families. This was against her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary | gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now very glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter exceedingly happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross. Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. In a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne necessarily belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at all. This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time heard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig. He and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross. The invitation was general, and generally declined. The Miss Musgroves were not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked before any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise. The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister. The something might be guessed by its effects. "Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs Croft. "Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed, you must." Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other." "Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage. Chapter 11 The time now approached for Lady Russell's return: the day was even fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it. It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families. This was against her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell. She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain Wentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting anywhere. They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little. These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for. The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which she had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and unheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them to justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away. A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at last, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with his family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville had never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two years before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to Lyme. He had been there for four-and-twenty hours. His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a lively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine country about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither was the consequence. The young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain Wentworth talked of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the wishes of | cried Mrs Croft. "Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed, you must." Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral;<|quote|>"but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?"</|quote|>"We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other." "Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage. Chapter 11 The time | Persuasion |
Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added: | No speaker | how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately | visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I | at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never | so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them. The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, | had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them. The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables. It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home. "Come late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen." These were the only words it contained. The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the "to you." After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew | not talk the same language; and the young man knew that in some respects this was true. But Beaufort understood every turn of her dialect, and spoke it fluently: his view of life, his tone, his attitude, were merely a coarser reflection of those revealed in Count Olenski's letter. This might seem to be to his disadvantage with Count Olenski's wife; but Archer was too intelligent to think that a young woman like Ellen Olenska would necessarily recoil from everything that reminded her of her past. She might believe herself wholly in revolt against it; but what had charmed her in it would still charm her, even though it were against her will. Thus, with a painful impartiality, did the young man make out the case for Beaufort, and for Beaufort's victim. A longing to enlighten her was strong in him; and there were moments when he imagined that all she asked was to be enlightened. That evening he unpacked his books from London. The box was full of things he had been waiting for impatiently; a new volume of Herbert Spencer, another collection of the prolific Alphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "Middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them. The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables. It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home. "Come late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen." These were the only words it contained. The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the "to you." After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska's missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of times. There were several ways of answering it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitated night. That on which, when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St. Augustine. XVI. When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw May Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to come. Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing a holiday! Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and it occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered: "Yes--I found I had | distasteful to them to propose it to a person with whom they were on terms of such limited cordiality as Beaufort. Beaufort knew all this, and must have foreseen it; and his taking the long journey for so small a reward gave the measure of his impatience. He was undeniably in pursuit of the Countess Olenska; and Beaufort had only one object in view in his pursuit of pretty women. His dull and childless home had long since palled on him; and in addition to more permanent consolations he was always in quest of amorous adventures in his own set. This was the man from whom Madame Olenska was avowedly flying: the question was whether she had fled because his importunities displeased her, or because she did not wholly trust herself to resist them; unless, indeed, all her talk of flight had been a blind, and her departure no more than a manoeuvre. Archer did not really believe this. Little as he had actually seen of Madame Olenska, he was beginning to think that he could read her face, and if not her face, her voice; and both had betrayed annoyance, and even dismay, at Beaufort's sudden appearance. But, after all, if this were the case, was it not worse than if she had left New York for the express purpose of meeting him? If she had done that, she ceased to be an object of interest, she threw in her lot with the vulgarest of dissemblers: a woman engaged in a love affair with Beaufort "classed" herself irretrievably. No, it was worse a thousand times if, judging Beaufort, and probably despising him, she was yet drawn to him by all that gave him an advantage over the other men about her: his habit of two continents and two societies, his familiar association with artists and actors and people generally in the world's eye, and his careless contempt for local prejudices. Beaufort was vulgar, he was uneducated, he was purse-proud; but the circumstances of his life, and a certain native shrewdness, made him better worth talking to than many men, morally and socially his betters, whose horizon was bounded by the Battery and the Central Park. How should any one coming from a wider world not feel the difference and be attracted by it? Madame Olenska, in a burst of irritation, had said to Archer that he and she did not talk the same language; and the young man knew that in some respects this was true. But Beaufort understood every turn of her dialect, and spoke it fluently: his view of life, his tone, his attitude, were merely a coarser reflection of those revealed in Count Olenski's letter. This might seem to be to his disadvantage with Count Olenski's wife; but Archer was too intelligent to think that a young woman like Ellen Olenska would necessarily recoil from everything that reminded her of her past. She might believe herself wholly in revolt against it; but what had charmed her in it would still charm her, even though it were against her will. Thus, with a painful impartiality, did the young man make out the case for Beaufort, and for Beaufort's victim. A longing to enlighten her was strong in him; and there were moments when he imagined that all she asked was to be enlightened. That evening he unpacked his books from London. The box was full of things he had been waiting for impatiently; a new volume of Herbert Spencer, another collection of the prolific Alphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "Middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them. The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables. It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home. "Come late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen." These were the only words it contained. The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the "to you." After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska's missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of times. There were several ways of answering it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitated night. That on which, when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St. Augustine. XVI. When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw May Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to come. Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing a holiday! Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and it occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered: "Yes--I found I had to see you," her happy blushes took the chill from her surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair's mild disapproval would be smiled away by a tolerant family. Early as it was, the main street was no place for any but formal greetings, and Archer longed to be alone with May, and to pour out all his tenderness and his impatience. It still lacked an hour to the late Welland breakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in she proposed that they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond the town. She had just been for a row on the river, and the sun that netted the little waves with gold seemed to have caught her in its meshes. Across the warm brown of her cheek her blown hair glittered like silver wire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almost pale in their youthful limpidity. As she walked beside Archer with her long swinging gait her face wore the vacant serenity of a young marble athlete. To Archer's strained nerves the vision was as soothing as the sight of the blue sky and the lazy river. They sat down on a bench under the orange-trees and he put his arm about her and kissed her. It was like drinking at a cold spring with the sun on it; but his pressure may have been more vehement than he had intended, for the blood rose to her face and she drew back as if he had startled her. "What is it?" he asked, smiling; and she looked at him with surprise, and answered: "Nothing." A slight embarrassment fell on them, and her hand slipped out of his. It was the only time that he had kissed her on the lips except for their fugitive embrace in the Beaufort conservatory, and he saw that she was disturbed, and shaken out of her cool boyish composure. "Tell me what you do all day," he said, crossing his arms under his tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle. To let her talk about familiar and simple things was the easiest way of carrying on his own independent train of thought; and he sat listening to her simple chronicle of swimming, sailing and riding, varied by an occasional dance at the primitive inn when a man-of-war came in. A few | he imagined that all she asked was to be enlightened. That evening he unpacked his books from London. The box was full of things he had been waiting for impatiently; a new volume of Herbert Spencer, another collection of the prolific Alphonse Daudet's brilliant tales, and a novel called "Middlemarch," as to which there had lately been interesting things said in the reviews. He had declined three dinner invitations in favour of this feast; but though he turned the pages with the sensuous joy of the book-lover, he did not know what he was reading, and one book after another dropped from his hand. Suddenly, among them, he lit on a small volume of verse which he had ordered because the name had attracted him: "The House of Life." He took it up, and found himself plunged in an atmosphere unlike any he had ever breathed in books; so warm, so rich, and yet so ineffably tender, that it gave a new and haunting beauty to the most elementary of human passions. All through the night he pursued through those enchanted pages the vision of a woman who had the face of Ellen Olenska; but when he woke the next morning, and looked out at the brownstone houses across the street, and thought of his desk in Mr. Letterblair's office, and the family pew in Grace Church, his hour in the park of Skuytercliff became as far outside the pale of probability as the visions of the night. "Mercy, how pale you look, Newland!"<|quote|>Janey commented over the coffee-cups at breakfast; and his mother added:</|quote|>"Newland, dear, I've noticed lately that you've been coughing; I do hope you're not letting yourself be overworked?" For it was the conviction of both ladies that, under the iron despotism of his senior partners, the young man's life was spent in the most exhausting professional labours--and he had never thought it necessary to undeceive them. The next two or three days dragged by heavily. The taste of the usual was like cinders in his mouth, and there were moments when he felt as if he were being buried alive under his future. He heard nothing of the Countess Olenska, or of the perfect little house, and though he met Beaufort at the club they merely nodded at each other across the whist-tables. It was not till the fourth evening that he found a note awaiting him on his return home. "Come late tomorrow: I must explain to you. Ellen." These were the only words it contained. The young man, who was dining out, thrust the note into his pocket, smiling a little at the Frenchness of the "to you." After dinner he went to a play; and it was not until his return home, after midnight, that he drew Madame Olenska's missive out again and re-read it slowly a number of times. There were several ways of answering it, and he gave considerable thought to each one during the watches of an agitated night. That on which, when morning came, he finally decided was to pitch some clothes into a portmanteau and jump on board a boat that was leaving that very afternoon for St. Augustine. XVI. When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw May Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered why he had waited so long to come. Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what people might think of his stealing a holiday! Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and it occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she had instantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered: "Yes--I found I had to see you," her happy blushes took the chill from her surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how soon even Mr. Letterblair's mild disapproval would be smiled away by a tolerant family. Early as it was, the main street was no place for any but formal greetings, and Archer longed to be alone with May, and to pour out all his tenderness and his impatience. It still lacked an hour to the late Welland breakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in she proposed that they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond the town. She had just been for a row on the river, and the sun that netted the little waves with gold seemed to have | The Age Of Innocence |
"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" | Brett Ashley | you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I | it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I | table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged | you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all | the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned | said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into | black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through." The count was tucking in his shirt. "Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went into the hotel. The chauffeur drove me around to my flat. I gave him twenty francs and he touched his cap and said: "Good night, sir," and drove off. I rang the bell. The door opened and I went up-stairs and went to bed. BOOK II CHAPTER 8 I did not see Brett again until she came back from San Sebastian. One card came from her from there. It had a picture of the Concha, and said: "Darling. Very quiet and healthy. Love to all the chaps. BRETT." Nor did I see Robert Cohn again. I heard Frances had left for England and I had a note from Cohn saying he was going out in the country for a couple of weeks, he did not know where, but that he wanted to hold me to the fishing-trip in Spain we had talked about last winter. I could reach him always, he wrote, through his bankers. Brett was gone, I was not bothered by Cohn's troubles, I rather enjoyed not having to play tennis, there was plenty of work to do, I went often to the races, dined with friends, and put in some extra time at the office getting things ahead so I could leave it in charge of my secretary when Bill Gorton and I should shove off to Spain the end of June. Bill Gorton arrived, put up a couple of days at the flat and went off to Vienna. He was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. There had been a grand theatrical season and a whole crop of great young light heavyweights. Any one of them was a good prospect to grow up, put on weight and trim Dempsey. Bill was very happy. He had made a lot of money on his last book, and was going to make a lot more. We had a good time while he was in Paris, and then he went off to Vienna. He was coming back in three weeks and we would leave for Spain to get in some fishing and go to 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 | You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said.<|quote|>"I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?"</|quote|>"Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the count shrugged his shoulders. "About his future you can't ever tell. Anyhow, his father was a great friend of my father." "Come on. Let's dance," Brett said. We danced. It was crowded and close. "Oh, darling," Brett said, "I'm so miserable." I had that feeling of going through something that has all happened before. "You were happy a minute ago." The drummer shouted: "You can't two time--" "It's all gone." "What's the matter?" "I don't know. I just feel terribly." ". . . . . ." the drummer chanted. Then turned to his sticks. "Want to go?" I had the feeling as in a nightmare of it all being something repeated, something I had been through and that now I must go through again. ". . . . . ." the drummer sang softly. "Let's go," said Brett. "You don't mind." ". . . . . ." the drummer shouted and grinned at Brett. "All right," I said. We got out from the crowd. Brett went to the dressing-room. "Brett wants to go," I said to the count. He nodded. "Does she? That's fine. You take the car. I'm going to stay here for a while, Mr. Barnes." We shook hands. "It was a wonderful time," I said. "I wish you would let me get this." I took a note out of my pocket. "Mr. Barnes, don't be ridiculous," the count said. Brett came over with her wrap on. She kissed the count and put her hand on his shoulder to keep him from standing up. As we went out the door I looked back and there were three girls at his table. We got into the big car. Brett gave the chauffeur the address of her hotel. "No, don't come up," she said at the hotel. She had rung and the door was unlatched. "Really?" "No. Please." "Good night, Brett," I said. "I'm sorry you feel rotten." "Good night, Jake. Good night, darling. I won't see you again." We kissed standing at the door. She pushed me away. We kissed again. "Oh, don't!" Brett said. She turned quickly and went | The Sun Also Rises |
said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. | No speaker | day did you do lessons?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," | "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine | 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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over | 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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell | 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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I | 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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all | gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We 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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch," said Alice, feeling very glad that it was over at last: "and I do so like that curious song about the whiting!" "Oh, as to the whiting," said the Mock Turtle, "they--you've seen them, of | "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?"<|quote|>said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.</|quote|>"Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?" | Stephen Blackpool | broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I | Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis | would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, | voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake! She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now. "I thought it must be near three," she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping | the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it. Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake! She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now. "I thought it must be near three," she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. "I am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she's quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth. She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain. "Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour, Rachael?" "No, Stephen. 'Tis | it back, and sat up. With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and large, she looked all round the room, and passed the corner where he slept in his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, and she put her hand over them as a shade, while she looked into it. Again they went all round the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He thought, as she once more shaded them not so much looking at him, as looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was there that no single trace was left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along with them, of the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her to be the same. All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless and powerless, except to watch her. Stupidly dozing, or communing with her incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at her ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it. Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake! She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now. "I thought it must be near three," she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. "I am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she's quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth. She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain. "Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour, Rachael?" "No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute, and I'm home." "Thou'rt not fearfo';" he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; "to leave me alone wi' her!" As she looked at him, saying, "Stephen?" he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his lips. "Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!" "I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working woman fu' of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among them, but she is changed." She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words; and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, on his face. "Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak'st me humbly wishfo' to be more like thee, and fearfo' to lose thee when this life is ower, and a' the muddle cleared awa'. Thou'rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul alive!" She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof on | abhorred him, and there was not one pitying or friendly eye among the millions that were fastened on his face. He stood on a raised stage, under his own loom; and, looking up at the shape the loom took, and hearing the burial service distinctly read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In an instant what he stood on fell below him, and he was gone. Out of what mystery he came back to his usual life, and to places that he knew, he was unable to consider; but he was back in those places by some means, and with this condemnation upon him, that he was never, in this world or the next, through all the unimaginable ages of eternity, to look on Rachael's face or hear her voice. Wandering to and fro, unceasingly, without hope, and in search of he knew not what (he only knew that he was doomed to seek it), he was the subject of a nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear of one particular shape which everything took. Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that form sooner or later. The object of his miserable existence was to prevent its recognition by any one among the various people he encountered. Hopeless labour! If he led them out of rooms where it was, if he shut up drawers and closets where it stood, if he drew the curious from places where he knew it to be secreted, and got them out into the streets, the very chimneys of the mills assumed that shape, and round them was the printed word. The wind was blowing again, the rain was beating on the house-tops, and the larger spaces through which he had strayed contracted to the four walls of his room. Saving that the fire had died out, it was as his eyes had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed. She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still. The table stood in the same place, close by the bedside, and on it, in its real proportions and appearance, was the shape so often repeated. He thought he saw the curtain move. He looked again, and he was sure it moved. He saw a hand come forth and grope about a little. Then the curtain moved more perceptibly, and the woman in the bed put it back, and sat up. With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, so heavy and large, she looked all round the room, and passed the corner where he slept in his chair. Her eyes returned to that corner, and she put her hand over them as a shade, while she looked into it. Again they went all round the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He thought, as she once more shaded them not so much looking at him, as looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was there that no single trace was left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along with them, of the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her to be the same. All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless and powerless, except to watch her. Stupidly dozing, or communing with her incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at her ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it. Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake! She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now. "I thought it must be near three," she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. "I am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she's quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth. She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain. "Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour, Rachael?" "No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute, and I'm home." "Thou'rt not fearfo';" he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; "to leave me alone wi' her!" As she looked at him, saying, "Stephen?" he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his lips. "Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!" "I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working woman fu' of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among them, but she is changed." She raised her eyes for a moment as she said the words; and then they fell again, in all their gentleness and mildness, on his face. "Thou changest me from bad to good. Thou mak'st me humbly wishfo' to be more like thee, and fearfo' to lose thee when this life is ower, and a' the muddle cleared awa'. Thou'rt an Angel; it may be, thou hast saved my soul alive!" She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproof on her lips died away when she saw the working of his face. "I coom home desp'rate. I coom home wi'out a hope, and mad wi' thinking that when I said a word o' complaint I was reckoned a unreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. I never hurt a livin' creetur; but happenin' so suddenly upon 't, I thowt, "How can _I_ say what I might ha' done to myseln, or her, or both!"" She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of terror, to stop him from saying more. He caught them in his unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly: "But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. I ha' seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep I ha' known thee still to be there. Evermore I will see thee there. I nevermore will see her or think o' her, but thou shalt be beside her. I nevermore will see or think o' anything that angers me, but thou, so much better than me, shalt be by th' side on't. And so I will try t' look t' th' time, and so I will try t' trust t' th' time, when thou and me at last shall walk together far awa', beyond the deep gulf, in th' country where thy little sister is." He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her go. She bade him good night in a broken voice, and went out into the street. The wind blew from the quarter where the day would soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared the sky before it, and the rain had spent itself or travelled elsewhere, and the stars were bright. He stood bare-headed in the road, watching her quick disappearance. As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in the window, so was Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man, to the common experiences of his life. CHAPTER XIV THE GREAT MANUFACTURER TIME went on in Coketown like its own machinery: so much material wrought up, so much fuel consumed, so many powers worn out, so much money made. But, less inexorable than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its varying seasons even into that wilderness of smoke and brick, and made the only stand that | looked into it. Again they went all round the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if at all, and returned to that corner. He thought, as she once more shaded them not so much looking at him, as looking for him with a brutish instinct that he was there that no single trace was left in those debauched features, or in the mind that went along with them, of the woman he had married eighteen years before. But that he had seen her come to this by inches, he never could have believed her to be the same. All this time, as if a spell were on him, he was motionless and powerless, except to watch her. Stupidly dozing, or communing with her incapable self about nothing, she sat for a little while with her hands at her ears, and her head resting on them. Presently, she resumed her staring round the room. And now, for the first time, her eyes stopped at the table with the bottles on it. Straightway she turned her eyes back to his corner, with the defiance of last night, and moving very cautiously and softly, stretched out her greedy hand. She drew a mug into the bed, and sat for a while considering which of the two bottles she should choose. Finally, she laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle that had swift and certain death in it, and, before his eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth. Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake! She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the contents. The draught was at her lips. A moment and she would be past all help, let the whole world wake and come about her with its utmost power. But in that moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. The creature struggled, struck her, seized her by the hair; but Rachael had the cup. Stephen broke out of his chair.<|quote|>"Rachael, am I wakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?"</|quote|>"'Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep, myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells." The wind brought the sounds of the church clock to the window. They listened, and it struck three. Stephen looked at her, saw how pale she was, noted the disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and hearing had been awake. She held the cup in her hand even now. "I thought it must be near three," she said, calmly pouring from the cup into the basin, and steeping the linen as before. "I am thankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I have put this on. There! And now she's quiet again. The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for 'tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever so little of it." As she spoke, she drained the basin into the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottle on the hearth. She had nothing to do, then, but to cover herself with her shawl before going out into the wind and rain. "Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour, Rachael?" "No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute, and I'm home." "Thou'rt not fearfo';" he said it in a low voice, as they went out at the door; "to leave me alone wi' her!" As she looked at him, saying, "Stephen?" he went down on his knee before her, on the poor mean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to his lips. "Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!" "I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poor friend. Angels are not like me. Between them, and a working woman fu' of faults, there is a deep gulf set. My little sister is among them, but | Hard Times |
said the old lady, good-humouredly; | No speaker | quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast | liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, | has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so | of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the | HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly | where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and | Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother. "I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man. "Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner. "Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer. "What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy. In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the coachman. In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew. Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning. "We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear, to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!" With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his clothing. A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried in a shrill tone. "Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole. "What now?" cried the Jew impatiently. "Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger. "Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's all. I shall know what to do next; never fear." The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his companions. "He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!" Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better. Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives. "There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. "A great number, sir," replied Oliver. "I never saw so many." "You shall read them, if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the | his occupation. "If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet." CHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed. "Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is gone, you see." "I see it is ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?" "It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," rejoined the old lady. "Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see it. I quite loved it." "Well, well!"<|quote|>said the old lady, good-humouredly;</|quote|>"you get well as fast as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about something else." This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed. They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before. One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while. "Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!" Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that | Oliver Twist |
"M. Riviere went to see you?" | Ellen Olenska | "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," | and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're | would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw | after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in | forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy," she answered, a smile in her voice. "Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an | right, really. There--we've passed it!" he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a faint smile, and he said: "You didn't expect me today?" "Oh, no." "I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd made all my arrangements--I very nearly crossed you in the train." "Oh--" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape. "Do you know--I hardly remembered you?" "Hardly remembered me?" "I mean: how shall I explain? I--it's always so. EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALL OVER AGAIN." "Oh, yes: I know! I know!" "Does it--do I too: to you?" he insisted. She nodded, looking out of the window. "Ellen--Ellen--Ellen!" She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy," she answered, a smile in her voice. "Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into | day be a tunnel under the Hudson through which the trains of the Pennsylvania railway would run straight into New York. They were of the brotherhood of visionaries who likewise predicted the building of ships that would cross the Atlantic in five days, the invention of a flying machine, lighting by electricity, telephonic communication without wires, and other Arabian Night marvels. "I don't care which of their visions comes true," Archer mused, "as long as the tunnel isn't built yet." In his senseless school-boy happiness he pictured Madame Olenska's descent from the train, his discovery of her a long way off, among the throngs of meaningless faces, her clinging to his arm as he guided her to the carriage, their slow approach to the wharf among slipping horses, laden carts, vociferating teamsters, and then the startling quiet of the ferry-boat, where they would sit side by side under the snow, in the motionless carriage, while the earth seemed to glide away under them, rolling to the other side of the sun. It was incredible, the number of things he had to say to her, and in what eloquent order they were forming themselves on his lips ... The clanging and groaning of the train came nearer, and it staggered slowly into the station like a prey-laden monster into its lair. Archer pushed forward, elbowing through the crowd, and staring blindly into window after window of the high-hung carriages. And then, suddenly, he saw Madame Olenska's pale and surprised face close at hand, and had again the mortified sensation of having forgotten what she looked like. They reached each other, their hands met, and he drew her arm through his. "This way--I have the carriage," he said. After that it all happened as he had dreamed. He helped her into the brougham with her bags, and had afterward the vague recollection of having properly reassured her about her grandmother and given her a summary of the Beaufort situation (he was struck by the softness of her: "Poor Regina!"). Meanwhile the carriage had worked its way out of the coil about the station, and they were crawling down the slippery incline to the wharf, menaced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses, dishevelled express-wagons, and an empty hearse--ah, that hearse! She shut her eyes as it passed, and clutched at Archer's hand. "If only it doesn't mean--poor Granny!" "Oh, no, no--she's much better--she's all right, really. There--we've passed it!" he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a faint smile, and he said: "You didn't expect me today?" "Oh, no." "I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd made all my arrangements--I very nearly crossed you in the train." "Oh--" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape. "Do you know--I hardly remembered you?" "Hardly remembered me?" "I mean: how shall I explain? I--it's always so. EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALL OVER AGAIN." "Oh, yes: I know! I know!" "Does it--do I too: to you?" he insisted. She nodded, looking out of the window. "Ellen--Ellen--Ellen!" She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy," she answered, a smile in her voice. "Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true." For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: "What do you mean by trusting to it to come true?" "Why--you know it will, don't you?" "Your vision of you and me together?" She burst into a sudden hard laugh. "You choose your place well to put it to me!" "Do you mean because we're in my wife's brougham? Shall we get out and walk, then? I don't suppose you mind a little snow?" She laughed again, more gently. "No; I shan't get out and walk, because my business is to get to Granny's as quickly as I can. And you'll sit beside me, and we'll look, not at visions, but at realities." "I don't know what you mean by realities. The only reality to me is this." She met the words with a long silence, during which the carriage rolled down an obscure side-street and then turned into the searching illumination of Fifth Avenue. "Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress--since I can't be your wife?" she asked. The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered. "I want--I want somehow to get away | they were crawling down the slippery incline to the wharf, menaced by swaying coal-carts, bewildered horses, dishevelled express-wagons, and an empty hearse--ah, that hearse! She shut her eyes as it passed, and clutched at Archer's hand. "If only it doesn't mean--poor Granny!" "Oh, no, no--she's much better--she's all right, really. There--we've passed it!" he exclaimed, as if that made all the difference. Her hand remained in his, and as the carriage lurched across the gang-plank onto the ferry he bent over, unbuttoned her tight brown glove, and kissed her palm as if he had kissed a relic. She disengaged herself with a faint smile, and he said: "You didn't expect me today?" "Oh, no." "I meant to go to Washington to see you. I'd made all my arrangements--I very nearly crossed you in the train." "Oh--" she exclaimed, as if terrified by the narrowness of their escape. "Do you know--I hardly remembered you?" "Hardly remembered me?" "I mean: how shall I explain? I--it's always so. EACH TIME YOU HAPPEN TO ME ALL OVER AGAIN." "Oh, yes: I know! I know!" "Does it--do I too: to you?" he insisted. She nodded, looking out of the window. "Ellen--Ellen--Ellen!" She made no answer, and he sat in silence, watching her profile grow indistinct against the snow-streaked dusk beyond the window. What had she been doing in all those four long months, he wondered? How little they knew of each other, after all! The precious moments were slipping away, but he had forgotten everything that he had meant to say to her and could only helplessly brood on the mystery of their remoteness and their proximity, which seemed to be symbolised by the fact of their sitting so close to each other, and yet being unable to see each other's faces. "What a pretty carriage! Is it May's?" she asked, suddenly turning her face from the window. "Yes." "It was May who sent you to fetch me, then? How kind of her!" He made no answer for a moment; then he said explosively: "Your husband's secretary came to see me the day after we met in Boston." In his brief letter to her he had made no allusion to M. Riviere's visit, and his intention had been to bury the incident in his bosom. But her reminder that they were in his wife's carriage provoked him to an impulse of retaliation. He would see if she liked his reference to Riviere any better than he liked hers to May! As on certain other occasions when he had expected to shake her out of her usual composure, she betrayed no sign of surprise: and at once he concluded: "He writes to her, then."<|quote|>"M. Riviere went to see you?"</|quote|>"Yes: didn't you know?" "No," she answered simply. "And you're not surprised?" She hesitated. "Why should I be? He told me in Boston that he knew you; that he'd met you in England I think." "Ellen--I must ask you one thing." "Yes." "I wanted to ask it after I saw him, but I couldn't put it in a letter. It was Riviere who helped you to get away--when you left your husband?" His heart was beating suffocatingly. Would she meet this question with the same composure? "Yes: I owe him a great debt," she answered, without the least tremor in her quiet voice. Her tone was so natural, so almost indifferent, that Archer's turmoil subsided. Once more she had managed, by her sheer simplicity, to make him feel stupidly conventional just when he thought he was flinging convention to the winds. "I think you're the most honest woman I ever met!" he exclaimed. "Oh, no--but probably one of the least fussy," she answered, a smile in her voice. "Call it what you like: you look at things as they are." "Ah--I've had to. I've had to look at the Gorgon." "Well--it hasn't blinded you! You've seen that she's just an old bogey like all the others." "She doesn't blind one; but she dries up one's tears." The answer checked the pleading on Archer's lips: it seemed to come from depths of experience beyond his reach. The slow advance of the ferry-boat had ceased, and her bows bumped against the piles of the slip with a violence that made the brougham stagger, and flung Archer and Madame Olenska against each other. The young man, trembling, felt the pressure of her shoulder, and passed his arm about her. "If you're not blind, then, you must see that this can't last." "What can't?" "Our being together--and not together." "No. You ought not to have come today," she said in an altered voice; and suddenly she turned, flung her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. At the same moment the carriage began to move, and a gas-lamp at the head of the slip flashed its light into the window. She drew away, and they sat silent and motionless while the brougham struggled through the congestion of carriages about the ferry-landing. As they gained the street Archer began to speak hurriedly. "Don't be afraid of me: you needn't squeeze yourself back into your corner like that. A stolen kiss isn't what I want. Look: I'm not even trying to touch the sleeve of your jacket. Don't suppose that I don't understand your reasons for not wanting to let this feeling between us dwindle into an ordinary hole-and-corner love-affair. I couldn't have spoken like this yesterday, because when we've been apart, and I'm looking forward to seeing you, every thought is burnt up in a great flame. But then you come; and you're so much more than I remembered, and what I want of you is so much more than an hour or two every now and then, with wastes of thirsty waiting between, that I can sit perfectly still beside you, like this, with that other vision in my mind, just quietly trusting to it to come true." For a moment she made no reply; then she asked, hardly above a whisper: "What do you mean by trusting | The Age Of Innocence |
"Your memory must be unusually short!" | Mr. Philips | "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"No, but we were both | which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said | so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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. | had produced a very favourable impression on the jury. Then the cross-examination began. "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?" "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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." | his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials. At the close of his examination, he paused, and said: "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have." Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury. Then the cross-examination began. "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?" "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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 | matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence. As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case. Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother. He would now call the prisoner. John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials. At the close of his examination, he paused, and said: "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have." Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury. Then the cross-examination began. "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?" "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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! | that it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it might be the prisoner's hand-writing cleverly counterfeited. Sir Ernest Heavywether's speech in opening the case for the defence was not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the prisoner's room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson's. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated. His learned friend Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips had stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner's head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels. The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist's shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston's Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence. As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case. Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother. He would now call the prisoner. John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials. At the close of his examination, he paused, and said: "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have." Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury. Then the cross-examination began. "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?" "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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. "What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out:" A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct | unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence. As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case. Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother. He would now call the prisoner. John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials. At the close of his examination, he paused, and said: "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have." Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury. Then the cross-examination began. "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?" "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case." "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation fragments which you must have recognized?" "I did not recognize them."<|quote|>"Your memory must be unusually short!"</|quote|>"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," | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"I don t know exactly what I mean to do," | Mary Datchet | no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on | said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion | His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about | rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed | matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to | s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to the extent, that is, of attaching great importance to what she felt, and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to make certain, from time to time, that her feelings were creditable to her. When Ralph left her she thought over her state of mind, and came to the conclusion that it would be a good thing to learn a language say Italian or German. She then went to a drawer, which she had to unlock, and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript pages. She read them through, looking up from her reading every now and then and thinking very intently for a few seconds about Ralph. She did her best to verify all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in her; and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably for them all. Then she looked back again at her manuscript, and decided that to write grammatical English prose is the hardest thing in the world. But she thought about herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical English prose or about Ralph Denham, and it may therefore be disputed whether she was in love, or, if so, to which branch of | desire came over her to talk to Ralph about her own feelings; or, at any rate, about something personal, so that she might see what he felt for her; but she resisted this wish. But she could not prevent him from feeling her lack of interest in what he was saying, and gradually they both became silent. One thought after another came up in Ralph s mind, but they were all, in some way, connected with Katharine, or with vague feelings of romance and adventure such as she inspired. But he could not talk to Mary about such thoughts; and he pitied her for knowing nothing of what he was feeling. "Here," he thought, "is where we differ from women; they have no sense of romance." "Well, Mary," he said at length, "why don t you say something amusing?" His tone was certainly provoking, but, as a general rule, Mary was not easily provoked. This evening, however, she replied rather sharply: "Because I ve got nothing amusing to say, I suppose." Ralph thought for a moment, and then remarked: "You work too hard. I don t mean your health," he added, as she laughed scornfully, "I mean that you seem to me to be getting wrapped up in your work." "And is that a bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "I think it is," he returned abruptly. "But only a week ago you were saying the opposite." Her tone was defiant, but she became curiously depressed. Ralph did not perceive it, and took this opportunity of lecturing her, and expressing his latest views upon the proper conduct of life. She listened, but her main impression was that he had been meeting some one who had influenced him. He was telling her that she ought to read more, and to see that there were other points of view as deserving of attention as her own. Naturally, having last seen him as he left the office in company with Katharine, she attributed the change to her; it was likely that Katharine, on leaving the scene which she had so clearly despised, had pronounced some such criticism, or suggested it by her own attitude. But she knew that Ralph would never admit that he had been influenced by anybody. "You don t read enough, Mary," he was saying. "You ought to read more poetry." It was true that Mary s reading had been rather limited to such works as she needed to know for the sake of examinations; and her time for reading in London was very little. For some reason, no one likes to be told that they do not read enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to the extent, that is, of attaching great importance to what she felt, and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to make certain, from time to time, that her feelings were creditable to her. When Ralph left her she thought over her state of mind, and came to the conclusion that it would be a good thing to learn a language say Italian or German. She then went to a drawer, which she had to unlock, and took from it certain deeply scored manuscript pages. She read them through, looking up from her reading every now and then and thinking very intently for a few seconds about Ralph. She did her best to verify all the qualities in him which gave rise to emotions in her; and persuaded herself that she accounted reasonably for them all. Then she looked back again at her manuscript, and decided that to write grammatical English prose is the hardest thing in the world. But she thought about herself a great deal more than she thought about grammatical English prose or about Ralph Denham, and it may therefore be disputed whether she was in love, or, if so, to which branch of the family her passion belonged. CHAPTER XI "It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering, the everlasting and perpetual process," said Katharine, as she passed under the archway, and so into the wide space of King s Bench Walk, "not the discovery itself at all." She spoke the last words looking up at Rodney s windows, which were a semilucent red color, in her honor, as she knew. He had asked her to tea with him. But she was in a mood when it is almost physically disagreeable to interrupt the stride of one s thought, and she walked up and down two or three times under the trees before approaching his staircase. She liked getting hold of some book which neither her father or mother had read, and keeping it to herself, and gnawing its contents in privacy, and pondering the meaning without sharing her thoughts with any one, or having to decide whether the book was a good one or a bad one. This evening she had twisted the words of Dostoevsky to suit her mood a fatalistic mood to proclaim that the process of discovery was life, and that, presumably, the nature of one s goal mattered not at all. She sat down for a moment upon one of the seats; felt herself carried along in the swirl of many things; decided, in her sudden way, that it was time to heave all this thinking overboard, and rose, leaving a fishmonger s basket on the seat behind her. Two minutes later her rap sounded with authority upon Rodney s door. "Well, William," she said, "I m afraid I m late." It was true, but he was so glad to see her that he forgot his annoyance. He had been occupied for over an hour in making things ready for her, and he now had his reward in seeing her look right and left, as she slipped her cloak from her shoulders, with evident satisfaction, although she said nothing. He had seen that the fire burnt well; jam-pots were on the table, tin covers shone in the fender, and the shabby comfort of the room was extreme. He was dressed in his old crimson dressing-gown, which was faded irregularly, and had bright new patches on it, like the paler grass which one finds on lifting a stone. He made the tea, and Katharine drew | enough poetry, but her resentment was only visible in the way she changed the position of her hands, and in the fixed look in her eyes. And then she thought to herself, "I m behaving exactly as I said I wouldn t behave," whereupon she relaxed all her muscles and said, in her reasonable way: "Tell me what I ought to read, then." Ralph had unconsciously been irritated by Mary, and he now delivered himself of a few names of great poets which were the text for a discourse upon the imperfection of Mary s character and way of life. "You live with your inferiors," he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text. "And you get into a groove because, on the whole, it s rather a pleasant groove. And you tend to forget what you re there for. You ve the feminine habit of making much of details. You don t see when things matter and when they don t. And that s what s the ruin of all these organizations. That s why the Suffragists have never done anything all these years. What s the point of drawing-room meetings and bazaars? You want to have ideas, Mary; get hold of something big; never mind making mistakes, but don t niggle. Why don t you throw it all up for a year, and travel? see something of the world. Don t be content to live with half a dozen people in a backwater all your life. But you won t," he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of thinking myself about myself, I mean," said Mary, surprising him by her acquiescence. "I should like to go somewhere far away." For a moment they were both silent. Ralph then said: "But look here, Mary, you haven t been taking this seriously, have you?" His irritation was spent, and the depression, which she could not keep out of her voice, made him feel suddenly with remorse that he had been hurting her. "You won t go away, will you?" he asked. And as she said nothing, he added, "Oh no, don t go away."<|quote|>"I don t know exactly what I mean to do,"</|quote|>she replied. She hovered on the verge of some discussion of her plans, but she received no encouragement. He fell into one of his queer silences, which seemed to Mary, in spite of all her precautions, to have reference to what she also could not prevent herself from thinking about their feeling for each other and their relationship. She felt that the two lines of thought bored their way in long, parallel tunnels which came very close indeed, but never ran into each other. When he had gone, and he left her without breaking his silence more than was needed to wish her good night, she sat on for a time, reviewing what he had said. If love is a devastating fire which melts the whole being into one mountain torrent, Mary was no more in love with Denham than she was in love with her poker or her tongs. But probably these extreme passions are very rare, and the state of mind thus depicted belongs to the very last stages of love, when the power to resist has been eaten away, week by week or day by day. Like most intelligent people, Mary was something of an egoist, to the extent, that is, of attaching great importance to what she felt, and she was by nature enough of a moralist to like to make certain, from time to time, that her feelings were creditable to her. When Ralph left her she thought over her state of mind, | Night And Day |
“Well, if you will----!” | Grace | why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever | never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this | can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard | up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at | that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood | take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!” “Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we | when you had gone (and _how_ you had to go you remember) he at once proposed, rather than that I should deceive you in a way so different from his own----” “To do all we want of him?” “To do all I did at least.” “And it was _then_,” he took in, “that you wouldn’t deal?” “Well” --try though she might to keep the colour out, it all came straighter and straighter now-- “those moments had brought you home to me as they had also brought _him_; making such a difference, I felt, for what he veered round to agree to.” “The difference” --Hugh wanted it so adorably definite-- “that you didn’t see your way to accepting----?” “No, not to accepting the condition he named.” “Which was that he’d keep the picture for you if you’d treat me as too ‘low’----?” “If I’d treat you,” said Lady Grace with her eyes on his fine young face, “as impossible.” He kept her eyes--he clearly liked so to make her repeat it. “And not even for the sake of the picture--?” After he had given her time, however, her silence, with her beautiful look in it, seemed to admonish him not to force her for his pleasure; as if what she had already told him didn’t make him throb enough for the wonder of it. He _had_ it, and let her see by his high flush how he made it his own--while, the next thing, as it was but part of her avowal, the rest of that illumination called for a different intelligence. “Your father’s reprobation of me personally is on the ground that you’re all such great people?” She spared him the invidious answer to this as, a moment before, his eagerness had spared her reserve; she flung over the “ground” that his question laid bare the light veil of an evasion, “‘Great people,’ I’ve learned to see, mustn’t--to remain great--do what my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!” “Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” Her ladyship turned to the girl. “May Lord John--as we do await your father--come up?” “As suits _you_, please!” “He may come up,” said Lady Sandgate to Gotch. “His lordship’s expected.” She had a pause till they were alone again, when she went on to her companion: “You asked me just now if I understood. Well--I do understand!” Lady Grace, with Gotch’s withdrawal, which left the door open, had reached the passage to the other room. “Then you’ll excuse me!” --she made her escape. II Lord John, reannounced the next instant from the nearest quarter and quite waiving salutations, left no doubt of the high pitch of his eagerness and tension as soon as the door had closed behind him. “What on earth then do you suppose he has come back to _do_--?” To which he added while his hostess’s gesture impatiently disclaimed conjecture: “Because when a fellow really finds himself the centre of a cyclone----!” “Isn’t it just at the centre,” she interrupted, “that you keep remarkably still, and only in the suburbs that you feel the rage? I count on dear Theign’s doing nothing in the least foolish--!” “Ah, but he can’t have chucked everything for nothing,” Lord John sharply returned; “and wherever you place him in the rumpus he can’t not meet somehow, hang it, such an assault on his character as a great nobleman and good citizen.” “It’s his luck to have become with the public of the newspapers the scapegoat-in-chief: for the sins, so-called, of a lot of | my father’s doing.” “It’s indeed on the theory of their not so behaving,” Hugh returned, “that we see them--all the inferior rest of us--in the grand glamour of their greatness!” If he had spoken to meet her admirable frankness half-way, that beauty in her almost brushed him aside to make at a single step the rest of the journey. “You won’t see them in it for long--if they don’t now, under such tests and with such opportunities, begin to take care.” This had given him, at a stroke, he clearly felt, all freedom for the closer criticism. “Lord Theign perhaps recognises some such canny truth, but ‘takes care,’ with the least trouble to himself and the finest short cut--does it, if you’ll let me say so, rather on the cheap--by finding ‘the likes’ of me, as his daughter’s trusted friend, out of the question.” “Well, you won’t mind that, will you?” Lady Grace asked, “if he finds his daughter herself, in any such relation to you, quite as much so.” “Different enough, from position to position and person to person,” he brightly brooded, “is the view that gets itself _most_ comfortably taken of the implications of Honour!” “Yes,” the girl returned; “my father, in the act of despoiling us all, all who are interested, without apparently the least unpleasant consciousness, keeps the balance showily even, to his mostly so fine, so delicate sense, by suddenly discovering that he’s scandalised at my caring for your friendship.” Hugh looked at her, on this, as with the gladness verily of possession promised and only waiting--or as if from that moment forth he had her assurance of everything that most concerned him and that might most inspire. “Well, isn’t the moral of it all simply that what his perversity of pride, as we can only hold it, will have most done for us is to bring us--and to keep us--blessedly together?” She seemed for a moment to question his “simply.” “Do you regard us as so much ‘together’ when you remember where, in spite of everything, I’ve put myself?” “By telling him to do what he likes?” he recalled without embarrassment. “Oh, that wasn’t in spite of ‘everything’--it was only in spite of the Manto-vano.” “‘Only’?” she flushed-- “when I’ve given the picture up?” “Ah,” Hugh cried, “I don’t care a hang for the picture!” And then as she let him, closer, close to her with this, possess himself of her hands: “We both only care, don’t we, that we’re given to each other thus? We both only care, don’t we, that nothing can keep us apart?” “Oh, if you’ve forgiven me--!” she sighed into his fond face. “Why, since you gave the thing up _for_ me,” he pleadingly laughed, “it isn’t as if you had given _me_ up----!” “For anything, anything? Ah never, never!” she breathed. “Then why aren’t we all right?”<|quote|>“Well, if you will----!”</|quote|>“Oh for ever and ever and ever!” --and with this ardent cry of his devotion his arms closed in their strength and she was clasped to his breast and to his lips. The next moment, however, she had checked him with the warning “Amy Sandgate!” --as if she had heard their hostess enter the other room. Lady Sand-gate was in fact almost already upon them--their disjunction had scarce been effected and she had reached the nearer threshold. They had at once put the widest space possible between them--a little of the flurry of which transaction agitated doubtless their clutch at composure. They gave back a shade awkwardly and consciously, on one side and the other, the speculative though gracious attention she for a few moments made them and their recent intimate relation the subject of; from all of which indeed Lady Grace sought and found cover in a prompt and responsible address to Hugh. “Mustn’t you go without more delay to Clifford Street?” He came back to it all alert “At once!” He had recovered his hat and reached the other door, whence he gesticulated farewell to the elder lady. “Please pardon me” --and he disappeared. Lady Sandgate hereupon stood for a little silently confronted with the girl. “Have you freedom of mind for the fact that your father’s suddenly at hand?” “He has come back?” --Lady Grace was sharply struck. “He arrives this afternoon and appears to go straight to Kitty--according to a wire that I find downstairs on coming back late from my luncheon. He has returned with a rush--as,” said his correspondent in the elation of triumph, “I was _sure_ he would!” Her young friend was more at sea. “Brought back, you mean, by the outcry--even though he so hates it?” But she was more and more all lucidity--save in so far as she was now almost all authority. “Ah, hating still more to seem afraid, he has come back to face the music!” Lady Grace, turning away as in vague despair for the manner in which the music might affect him, yet wheeled about again, after thought, to a positive recognition and even to quite an inconsequent pride. “Yes--that’s dear old father!” And what was Lady Sandgate moreover but mistress now of the subject? “At the point the row has reached he couldn’t stand it another day; so he has thrown up his cure and--lest we should oppose him!--not even announced his start.” “Well,” her companion returned, “now that I’ve _done_ it all I shall never oppose him again!” Lady Sandgate appeared to show herself as still under the impression she might have received on entering. “He’ll only oppose _you!_” “If he does,” said Lady Grace, “we’re at present two to bear it.” “Heaven save us then” --the elder woman was quick, was even cordial, for the sense of this-- “your good friend _is_ clever!” Lady Grace honoured the remark. “Mr. Crim-ble’s remarkably clever.” “And you’ve arranged----?” “We haven’t arranged--but we’ve understood. So that, dear Amy, if _you_ understand--!” Lady Grace paused, for Gotch had come in from the hall. “His lordship has arrived?” his mistress immediately put to him. “No, my lady, but Lord John has--to know if he’s expected _here_, and in that case, by your ladyship’s leave, to come up.” | The Outcry |
he cried. | No speaker | "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." | Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little | There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and | Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am | details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged." "But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives." "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "Oh, she is better than good she | over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father," he said, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged." "But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives." "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "Oh, she is better than good she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn t forget his appointment." "Are you serious?" "Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment." "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. "You can t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation." "I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, | real affection. There were tears in his eyes as he went downstairs. His mother was waiting for him below. She grumbled at his unpunctuality, as he entered. He made no answer, but sat down to his meagre meal. The flies buzzed round the table and crawled over the stained cloth. Through the rumble of omnibuses, and the clatter of street-cabs, he could hear the droning voice devouring each minute that was left to him. After some time, he thrust away his plate and put his head in his hands. He felt that he had a right to know. It should have been told to him before, if it was as he suspected. Leaden with fear, his mother watched him. Words dropped mechanically from her lips. A tattered lace handkerchief twitched in her fingers. When the clock struck six, he got up and went to the door. Then he turned back and looked at her. Their eyes met. In hers he saw a wild appeal for mercy. It enraged him. "Mother, I have something to ask you," he said. Her eyes wandered vaguely about the room. She made no answer. "Tell me the truth. I have a right to know. Were you married to my father?" She heaved a deep sigh. It was a sigh of relief. The terrible moment, the moment that night and day, for weeks and months, she had dreaded, had come at last, and yet she felt no terror. Indeed, in some measure it was a disappointment to her. The vulgar directness of the question called for a direct answer. The situation had not been gradually led up to. It was crude. It reminded her of a bad rehearsal. "No," she answered, wondering at the harsh simplicity of life. "My father was a scoundrel then!" cried the lad, clenching his fists. She shook her head. "I knew he was not free. We loved each other very much. If he had lived, he would have made provision for us. Don t speak against him, my son. He was your father, and a gentleman. Indeed, he was highly connected." An oath broke from his lips. "I don t care for myself," he exclaimed, "but don t let Sibyl.... It is a gentleman, isn t it, who is in love with her, or says he is? Highly connected, too, I suppose." For a moment a hideous sense of humiliation came over the woman. Her head drooped. She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. "Sibyl has a mother," she murmured; "I had none." The lad was touched. He went towards her, and stooping down, he kissed her. "I am sorry if I have pained you by asking about my father," he said, "but I could not help it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged." "But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives." "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "Oh, she is better than good she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn t forget his appointment." "Are you serious?" "Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment." "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. "You can t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation." "I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with what charming people do. If a personality fascinates me, whatever mode of expression that personality selects is absolutely delightful to me. Dorian Gray falls in love with a beautiful girl who acts Juliet, and proposes to marry her. Why not? If he wedded Messalina, he would be none the less interesting. You know I am not a champion of marriage. The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. They retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life. They become more highly organized, and to be highly organized is, I should fancy, the object of man s existence. Besides, every experience is of value, and whatever one may say against marriage, it is certainly an experience. I hope that Dorian Gray will make this girl his wife, passionately adore her for six months, and then suddenly become fascinated by some one else. He would be a wonderful study." "You don t mean a single word of all that, Harry; you know you don t. If Dorian Gray s life were spoiled, no one would be sorrier than yourself. You are much better than you pretend to be." Lord Henry laughed. "The reason we all like to think so well of others is that we are all afraid for ourselves. The basis of optimism is sheer terror. We think that we are generous because we credit our neighbour with the possession of those virtues that are likely to be a benefit to us. We praise the banker that we may overdraw our account, and find good qualities in the highwayman in the hope that he may spare our pockets. I mean everything that I have said. I have the greatest contempt for optimism. As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested. If you want to mar a nature, you have merely to reform it. As for marriage, of course that would be silly, but there are other and more interesting bonds between men and women. I will certainly encourage them. They have the charm of being fashionable. But here is Dorian himself. He will tell you more than I can." "My dear Harry, my dear Basil, you must both congratulate me!" said the lad, throwing off his evening cape with its satin-lined wings and shaking each of his friends by the hand in turn. "I have never been so happy. Of course, it is sudden all | it. I must go now. Good-bye. Don t forget that you will have only one child now to look after, and believe me that if this man wrongs my sister, I will find out who he is, track him down, and kill him like a dog. I swear it." The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her. She was familiar with the atmosphere. She breathed more freely, and for the first time for many months she really admired her son. She would have liked to have continued the scene on the same emotional scale, but he cut her short. Trunks had to be carried down and mufflers looked for. The lodging-house drudge bustled in and out. There was the bargaining with the cabman. The moment was lost in vulgar details. It was with a renewed feeling of disappointment that she waved the tattered lace handkerchief from the window, as her son drove away. She was conscious that a great opportunity had been wasted. She consoled herself by telling Sibyl how desolate she felt her life would be, now that she had only one child to look after. She remembered the phrase. It had pleased her. Of the threat she said nothing. It was vividly and dramatically expressed. She felt that they would all laugh at it some day. CHAPTER VI. "I suppose you have heard the news, Basil?" said Lord Henry that evening as Hallward was shown into a little private room at the Bristol where dinner had been laid for three. "No, Harry," answered the artist, giving his hat and coat to the bowing waiter. "What is it? Nothing about politics, I hope! They don t interest me. There is hardly a single person in the House of Commons worth painting, though many of them would be the better for a little whitewashing." "Dorian Gray is engaged to be married," said Lord Henry, watching him as he spoke. Hallward started and then frowned. "Dorian engaged to be married!"<|quote|>he cried.</|quote|>"Impossible!" "It is perfectly true." "To whom?" "To some little actress or other." "I can t believe it. Dorian is far too sensible." "Dorian is far too wise not to do foolish things now and then, my dear Basil." "Marriage is hardly a thing that one can do now and then, Harry." "Except in America," rejoined Lord Henry languidly. "But I didn t say he was married. I said he was engaged to be married. There is a great difference. I have a distinct remembrance of being married, but I have no recollection at all of being engaged. I am inclined to think that I never was engaged." "But think of Dorian s birth, and position, and wealth. It would be absurd for him to marry so much beneath him." "If you want to make him marry this girl, tell him that, Basil. He is sure to do it, then. Whenever a man does a thoroughly stupid thing, it is always from the noblest motives." "I hope the girl is good, Harry. I don t want to see Dorian tied to some vile creature, who might degrade his nature and ruin his intellect." "Oh, she is better than good she is beautiful," murmured Lord Henry, sipping a glass of vermouth and orange-bitters. "Dorian says she is beautiful, and he is not often wrong about things of that kind. Your portrait of him has quickened his appreciation of the personal appearance of other people. It has had that excellent effect, amongst others. We are to see her to-night, if that boy doesn t forget his appointment." "Are you serious?" "Quite serious, Basil. I should be miserable if I thought I should ever be more serious than I am at the present moment." "But do you approve of it, Harry?" asked the painter, walking up and down the room and biting his lip. "You can t approve of it, possibly. It is some silly infatuation." "I never approve, or disapprove, of anything now. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices. I never take any notice of what common people say, and I never interfere with | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
she replied, | No speaker | a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that | "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very | from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more | that fact. "I am sometimes alone," she replied. "But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It s like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?" "William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more than I ve done." "If that s your standard, you ve nothing to be proud of," said Ralph grimly. "Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it s being and not doing that matters," she continued. "Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don t mean to say you read Emerson?" | in the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India, when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, by which she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the great clock at Westminster itself. As the last of them died away, there was a firm knocking on her own door, and she rose and opened it. She returned to the room, with a look of steady pleasure in her eyes, and she was talking to Ralph Denham, who followed her. "Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact. "I am sometimes alone," she replied. "But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It s like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?" "William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more than I ve done." "If that s your standard, you ve nothing to be proud of," said Ralph grimly. "Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it s being and not doing that matters," she continued. "Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don t mean to say you read Emerson?" "Perhaps it wasn t Emerson; but why shouldn t I read Emerson?" she asked, with a tinge of anxiety. "There s no reason that I know of. It s the combination that s odd books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed to recommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive of happiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting into her work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity. She held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly. "You always say that," she said. "I assure you | the grass close to the roots, while the shadows of the little trees moved very slightly this way and that in the moonlight, as the breeze went through them. But she was perfectly conscious of her present situation, and derived some pleasure from the reflection that she could rejoice equally in solitude, and in the presence of the many very different people who were now making their way, by divers paths, across London to the spot where she was sitting. As she ran her needle in and out of the wool, she thought of the various stages in her own life which made her present position seem the culmination of successive miracles. She thought of her clerical father in his country parsonage, and of her mother s death, and of her own determination to obtain education, and of her college life, which had merged, not so very long ago, in the wonderful maze of London, which still seemed to her, in spite of her constitutional level-headedness, like a vast electric light, casting radiance upon the myriads of men and women who crowded round it. And here she was at the very center of it all, that center which was constantly in the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India, when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, by which she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the great clock at Westminster itself. As the last of them died away, there was a firm knocking on her own door, and she rose and opened it. She returned to the room, with a look of steady pleasure in her eyes, and she was talking to Ralph Denham, who followed her. "Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact. "I am sometimes alone," she replied. "But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It s like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?" "William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more than I ve done." "If that s your standard, you ve nothing to be proud of," said Ralph grimly. "Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it s being and not doing that matters," she continued. "Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don t mean to say you read Emerson?" "Perhaps it wasn t Emerson; but why shouldn t I read Emerson?" she asked, with a tinge of anxiety. "There s no reason that I know of. It s the combination that s odd books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed to recommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive of happiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting into her work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity. She held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly. "You always say that," she said. "I assure you it s a common combination, as you call it, in the houses of the clergy. The only thing that s odd about me is that I enjoy them both Emerson and the stocking." A knock was heard, and Ralph exclaimed: "Damn those people! I wish they weren t coming!" "It s only Mr. Turner, on the floor below," said Mary, and she felt grateful to Mr. Turner for having alarmed Ralph, and for having given a false alarm. "Will there be a crowd?" Ralph asked, after a pause. "There ll be the Morrises and the Crashaws, and Dick Osborne, and Septimus, and all that set. Katharine Hilbery is coming, by the way, so William Rodney told me." "Katharine Hilbery!" Ralph exclaimed. "You know her?" Mary asked, with some surprise. "I went to a tea-party at her house." Mary pressed him to tell her all about it, and Ralph was not at all unwilling to exhibit proofs of the extent of his knowledge. He described the scene with certain additions and exaggerations which interested Mary very much. "But, in spite of what you say, I do admire her," she said. "I ve only seen her once or twice, but she seems | workers. Her gestures seemed to have a certain purpose, the muscles round eyes and lips were set rather firmly, as though the senses had undergone some discipline, and were held ready for a call on them. She had contracted two faint lines between her eyebrows, not from anxiety but from thought, and it was quite evident that all the feminine instincts of pleasing, soothing, and charming were crossed by others in no way peculiar to her sex. For the rest she was brown-eyed, a little clumsy in movement, and suggested country birth and a descent from respectable hard-working ancestors, who had been men of faith and integrity rather than doubters or fanatics. At the end of a fairly hard day s work it was certainly something of an effort to clear one s room, to pull the mattress off one s bed, and lay it on the floor, to fill a pitcher with cold coffee, and to sweep a long table clear for plates and cups and saucers, with pyramids of little pink biscuits between them; but when these alterations were effected, Mary felt a lightness of spirit come to her, as if she had put off the stout stuff of her working hours and slipped over her entire being some vesture of thin, bright silk. She knelt before the fire and looked out into the room. The light fell softly, but with clear radiance, through shades of yellow and blue paper, and the room, which was set with one or two sofas resembling grassy mounds in their lack of shape, looked unusually large and quiet. Mary was led to think of the heights of a Sussex down, and the swelling green circle of some camp of ancient warriors. The moonlight would be falling there so peacefully now, and she could fancy the rough pathway of silver upon the wrinkled skin of the sea. "And here we are," she said, half aloud, half satirically, yet with evident pride, "talking about art." She pulled a basket containing balls of differently colored wools and a pair of stockings which needed darning towards her, and began to set her fingers to work; while her mind, reflecting the lassitude of her body, went on perversely, conjuring up visions of solitude and quiet, and she pictured herself laying aside her knitting and walking out on to the down, and hearing nothing but the sheep cropping the grass close to the roots, while the shadows of the little trees moved very slightly this way and that in the moonlight, as the breeze went through them. But she was perfectly conscious of her present situation, and derived some pleasure from the reflection that she could rejoice equally in solitude, and in the presence of the many very different people who were now making their way, by divers paths, across London to the spot where she was sitting. As she ran her needle in and out of the wool, she thought of the various stages in her own life which made her present position seem the culmination of successive miracles. She thought of her clerical father in his country parsonage, and of her mother s death, and of her own determination to obtain education, and of her college life, which had merged, not so very long ago, in the wonderful maze of London, which still seemed to her, in spite of her constitutional level-headedness, like a vast electric light, casting radiance upon the myriads of men and women who crowded round it. And here she was at the very center of it all, that center which was constantly in the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India, when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, by which she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the great clock at Westminster itself. As the last of them died away, there was a firm knocking on her own door, and she rose and opened it. She returned to the room, with a look of steady pleasure in her eyes, and she was talking to Ralph Denham, who followed her. "Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact. "I am sometimes alone," she replied. "But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It s like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?" "William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more than I ve done." "If that s your standard, you ve nothing to be proud of," said Ralph grimly. "Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it s being and not doing that matters," she continued. "Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don t mean to say you read Emerson?" "Perhaps it wasn t Emerson; but why shouldn t I read Emerson?" she asked, with a tinge of anxiety. "There s no reason that I know of. It s the combination that s odd books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed to recommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive of happiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting into her work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity. She held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly. "You always say that," she said. "I assure you it s a common combination, as you call it, in the houses of the clergy. The only thing that s odd about me is that I enjoy them both Emerson and the stocking." A knock was heard, and Ralph exclaimed: "Damn those people! I wish they weren t coming!" "It s only Mr. Turner, on the floor below," said Mary, and she felt grateful to Mr. Turner for having alarmed Ralph, and for having given a false alarm. "Will there be a crowd?" Ralph asked, after a pause. "There ll be the Morrises and the Crashaws, and Dick Osborne, and Septimus, and all that set. Katharine Hilbery is coming, by the way, so William Rodney told me." "Katharine Hilbery!" Ralph exclaimed. "You know her?" Mary asked, with some surprise. "I went to a tea-party at her house." Mary pressed him to tell her all about it, and Ralph was not at all unwilling to exhibit proofs of the extent of his knowledge. He described the scene with certain additions and exaggerations which interested Mary very much. "But, in spite of what you say, I do admire her," she said. "I ve only seen her once or twice, but she seems to me to be what one calls a personality." "I didn t mean to abuse her. I only felt that she wasn t very sympathetic to me." "They say she s going to marry that queer creature Rodney." "Marry Rodney? Then she must be more deluded than I thought her." "Now that s my door, all right," Mary exclaimed, carefully putting her wools away, as a succession of knocks reverberated unnecessarily, accompanied by a sound of people stamping their feet and laughing. A moment later the room was full of young men and women, who came in with a peculiar look of expectation, exclaimed "Oh!" when they saw Denham, and then stood still, gaping rather foolishly. The room very soon contained between twenty and thirty people, who found seats for the most part upon the floor, occupying the mattresses, and hunching themselves together into triangular shapes. They were all young and some of them seemed to make a protest by their hair and dress, and something somber and truculent in the expression of their faces, against the more normal type, who would have passed unnoticed in an omnibus or an underground railway. It was notable that the talk was confined to groups, and was, at first, entirely spasmodic in character, and muttered in undertones as if the speakers were suspicious of their fellow-guests. Katharine Hilbery came in rather late, and took up a position on the floor, with her back against the wall. She looked round quickly, recognized about half a dozen people, to whom she nodded, but failed to see Ralph, or, if so, had already forgotten to attach any name to him. But in a second these heterogeneous elements were all united by the voice of Mr. Rodney, who suddenly strode up to the table, and began very rapidly in high-strained tones: "In undertaking to speak of the Elizabethan use of metaphor in poetry" All the different heads swung slightly or steadied themselves into a position in which they could gaze straight at the speaker s face, and the same rather solemn expression was visible on all of them. But, at the same time, even the faces that were most exposed to view, and therefore most tautly under control, disclosed a sudden impulsive tremor which, unless directly checked, would have developed into an outburst of laughter. The first sight of Mr. Rodney was irresistibly ludicrous. He was very | her constitutional level-headedness, like a vast electric light, casting radiance upon the myriads of men and women who crowded round it. And here she was at the very center of it all, that center which was constantly in the minds of people in remote Canadian forests and on the plains of India, when their thoughts turned to England. The nine mellow strokes, by which she was now apprised of the hour, were a message from the great clock at Westminster itself. As the last of them died away, there was a firm knocking on her own door, and she rose and opened it. She returned to the room, with a look of steady pleasure in her eyes, and she was talking to Ralph Denham, who followed her. "Alone?" he said, as if he were pleasantly surprised by that fact. "I am sometimes alone," she replied. "But you expect a great many people," he added, looking round him. "It s like a room on the stage. Who is it to-night?" "William Rodney, upon the Elizabethan use of metaphor. I expect a good solid paper, with plenty of quotations from the classics." Ralph warmed his hands at the fire, which was flapping bravely in the grate, while Mary took up her stocking again. "I suppose you are the only woman in London who darns her own stockings," he observed. "I m only one of a great many thousands really,"<|quote|>she replied,</|quote|>"though I must admit that I was thinking myself very remarkable when you came in. And now that you re here I don t think myself remarkable at all. How horrid of you! But I m afraid you re much more remarkable than I am. You ve done much more than I ve done." "If that s your standard, you ve nothing to be proud of," said Ralph grimly. "Well, I must reflect with Emerson that it s being and not doing that matters," she continued. "Emerson?" Ralph exclaimed, with derision. "You don t mean to say you read Emerson?" "Perhaps it wasn t Emerson; but why shouldn t I read Emerson?" she asked, with a tinge of anxiety. "There s no reason that I know of. It s the combination that s odd books and stockings. The combination is very odd." But it seemed to recommend itself to him. Mary gave a little laugh, expressive of happiness, and the particular stitches that she was now putting into her work appeared to her to be done with singular grace and felicity. She held out the stocking and looked at it approvingly. "You always say that," she said. "I assure you it s a common combination, as you call it, in the houses of the clergy. The only thing that s odd about me is that I enjoy them both Emerson and the stocking." A knock was heard, and Ralph exclaimed: "Damn those people! I wish they weren t coming!" "It s only Mr. Turner, on the floor below," said Mary, and she felt grateful to Mr. Turner for having alarmed Ralph, and for having given a false alarm. "Will there be a crowd?" Ralph asked, after a pause. "There ll be the Morrises and the Crashaws, and Dick Osborne, and Septimus, and all that set. Katharine Hilbery is coming, by the way, so William Rodney told me." "Katharine Hilbery!" Ralph exclaimed. "You know her?" Mary asked, with some surprise. "I went to a tea-party at her house." Mary pressed him to tell her all about it, and Ralph was not at all unwilling to exhibit proofs of the extent of his knowledge. He described the scene with certain additions and exaggerations which interested Mary very much. "But, in spite of what you say, I do admire her," she said. "I ve only seen her once or twice, but she seems to me to be what one calls a personality." "I didn t mean to abuse her. I only felt that she wasn t very sympathetic to me." "They say she s going to marry that queer creature Rodney." "Marry Rodney? Then she must be more deluded than I thought her." "Now that s my door, all right," Mary exclaimed, carefully putting her wools away, as a succession of knocks reverberated unnecessarily, accompanied by a sound of people stamping their feet and laughing. A moment later the room was full of young men and women, who came in with a peculiar look of expectation, exclaimed "Oh!" when they saw Denham, and then stood still, gaping rather foolishly. The room very soon contained between twenty and thirty people, who found seats for the most part upon the floor, occupying the mattresses, and hunching themselves together into triangular shapes. They were all young and some of them seemed to make a protest by their hair and dress, and something somber and truculent | Night And Day |
“You didn’t look so interested.” | Tom | she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed | than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did | for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had | powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That | fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was | needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s | her is her director.” He took them ceremoniously from group to group: “Mrs. Buchanan … and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.” “Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.” But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening. “I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.” Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer. “Well, I liked him anyhow.” “I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.” Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.” Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.” “Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.” … She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time. We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now. “How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?” The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes. “Wha’?” A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence: “Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.” “I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly. “We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ” “She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.” “Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.” “Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet. “Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.” He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression. “I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.” “You mean about the dance?” “The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.” He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago. “And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—” He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers. “I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!” He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand. “I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.” He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was … … One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on | me!” It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek. “I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.” But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand. I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass. “Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?” “Where’d you hear that?” I inquired. “I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.” “Not Gatsby,” I said shortly. He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet. “Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.” A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar. “At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.<|quote|>“You didn’t look so interested.”</|quote|>“Well, I was.” Tom laughed and turned to me. “Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?” Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air. “Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.” “I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.” “I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.” The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive. “Good night, Nick,” said Daisy. Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion. I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired. “She didn’t like it,” he said immediately. “Of course she did.” “She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have | The Great Gatsby |
"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri." | Jake Barnes | not worth it," I said.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>At the hotel I paid | kid me." "Thirty-five pesetas." "It's not worth it," I said.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him | 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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. | 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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 and read and swim. There was a fine beach | 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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 and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Caf Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. "How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the caf was a restaurant. "Well. Very well. One eats very well." "Good." I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Ch teau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The _marc_ was | 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. "Fine. This one is on me," 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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 and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Caf Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. "How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the caf was a restaurant. "Well. Very well. One eats very well." "Good." I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Ch teau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The _marc_ was good. I had a second _marc_ after the coffee. The waiter seemed a little offended about the flowers of the Pyrenees, so I overtipped him. That made him happy. It felt comfortable to be in a country where it is so simple to make people happy. You can never tell whether a Spanish waiter will thank you. Everything is on such a clear financial basis in France. It is the simplest country to live in. No one makes things complicated by becoming your friend for any obscure reason. If you want people to like you you have only to spend a little money. I spent a little money and the waiter liked me. He appreciated my valuable qualities. He would be glad to see me back. I would dine there again some time and he would be glad to see me, and would want me at his table. It would be a sincere liking because it would have a sound basis. I was back in France. Next morning I tipped every one a little too much at the hotel to make more friends, and left on the morning train for San Sebastian. At the station I did not tip the porter more than I should because I did not think I would ever see him again. I only wanted a few good French friends in Bayonne to make me welcome in case I should come back there again. I knew that if they remembered me their friendship would be loyal. At Irun we had to change trains and show passports. I hated to leave France. Life was so simple in France. I felt I was a fool to be going back into Spain. In Spain you could not tell about anything. I felt like a fool to be going back into it, but I stood in line with my passport, opened my bags for the customs, bought a ticket, went through a gate, climbed onto the train, and after forty minutes and eight tunnels I was at San Sebastian. Even on a hot day San Sebastian has a certain early-morning quality. The trees seem as though their leaves were never quite dry. The streets feel as though they had just been sprinkled. It is always cool and shady on certain streets on the hottest day. I went to a hotel in the town where I had stopped before, and they | 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.<|quote|>"Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri."</|quote|>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 and read and swim. There was a fine beach there. There were wonderful trees along the promenade above the beach, and there were many children sent down with their nurses before the season opened. In the evening there would be band concerts under the trees across from the Caf Marinas. I could sit in the Marinas and listen. "How does one eat inside?" I asked the waiter. Inside the caf was a restaurant. "Well. Very well. One eats very well." "Good." I went in and ate dinner. It was a big meal for France but it seemed very carefully apportioned after Spain. I drank a bottle of wine for company. It was a Ch teau Margaux. It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company. Afterward I had coffee. The waiter recommended a Basque liqueur called Izzarra. He brought in the bottle and poured a liqueur-glass full. He said Izzarra was made of the flowers of the Pyrenees. The veritable flowers of the Pyrenees. It looked like hair-oil and smelled like Italian _strega_. I told him to take the flowers of the Pyrenees away and bring me a _vieux marc_. The | The Sun Also Rises |
The count was tucking in his shirt. | No speaker | Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" | as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When | under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love | "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," | when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It | and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring | Henry," said the count. He took out a heavy pigskin cigar-case and offered it to me. "Like to try a real American cigar?" "Thanks," I said. "I'll finish the cigarette." He cut off the end of his cigar with a gold cutter he wore on one end of his watch-chain. "I like a cigar to really draw," said the count "Half the cigars you smoke don't draw." He lit the cigar, puffed at it, looking across the table at Brett. "And when you're divorced, Lady Ashley, then you won't have a title." "No. What a pity." "No," said the count. "You don't need a title. You got class all over you." "Thanks. Awfully decent of you." "I'm not joking you," the count blew a cloud of smoke. "You got the most class of anybody I ever seen. You got it. That's all." "Nice of you," said Brett. "Mummy would be pleased. Couldn't you write it out, and I'll send it in a letter to her." "I'd tell her, too," said the count. "I'm not joking you. I never joke people. Joke people and you make enemies. That's what I always say." "You're right," Brett said. "You're terribly right. I always joke people and I haven't a friend in the world. Except Jake here." "You don't joke him." "That's it." "Do you, now?" asked the count. "Do you joke him?" Brett looked at me and wrinkled up the corners of her eyes. "No," she said. "I wouldn't joke him." "See," said the count. "You don't joke him." "This is a hell of a dull talk," Brett said. "How about some of that champagne?" The count reached down and twirled the bottles in the shiny bucket. "It isn't cold, yet. You're always drinking, my dear. Why don't you just talk?" "I've talked too ruddy much. I've talked myself all out to Jake." "I should like to hear you really talk, my dear. When you talk to me you never finish your sentences at all." "Leave 'em for you to finish. Let any one finish them as they like." "It is a very interesting system," the count reached down and gave the bottles a twirl. "Still I would like to hear you talk some time." "Isn't he a fool?" Brett asked. "Now," the count brought up a bottle. "I think this is cool." I brought a towel and he wiped the bottle dry and held it up. "I like to drink champagne from magnums. The wine is better but it would have been too hard to cool." He held the bottle, looking at it. I put out the glasses. "I say. You might open it," Brett suggested. "Yes, my dear. Now I'll open it." It was amazing champagne. "I say that is wine," Brett held up her glass. "We ought to toast something. 'Here's to royalty.'" "This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste." Brett's glass was empty. "You ought to write a book on wines, count," I said. "Mr. Barnes," answered the count, "all I want out of wines is to enjoy them." "Let's enjoy a little more of this," Brett pushed her glass forward. The count poured very carefully. "There, my dear. Now you enjoy that slowly, and then you can get drunk." "Drunk? Drunk?" "My dear, you are charming when you are drunk." "Listen to the man." "Mr. Barnes," the count poured my glass full. "She is the only lady I have ever known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at the count. He was sitting at the table smoking a cigar. The music stopped again. "Let's go over." Brett started toward the table. The music started and again we danced, tight in the crowd. "You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael's the best dancer I know." "He's splendid." "He's got his points." "I like him," I said. "I'm damned fond of him." "I'm going to marry him," Brett said. "Funny. I haven't thought about him for a week." "Don't you write him?" "Not I. Never write letters." "I'll bet he writes to you." "Rather. Damned good letters, too." "When are you going to get married?" "How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael's trying to get his mother to put up for it." "Could I help you?" "Don't be an ass. Michael's people have loads of money." The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up. "Very nice," he said. "You looked very, very nice." "Don't you dance, count?" I asked. "No. I'm too old." "Oh, come off it," Brett said. "My dear, I would do it if I would enjoy it. I enjoy to watch you dance." "Splendid," Brett said. "I'll dance again for you some time. I say. What about your little friend, Zizi?" "Let me tell you. I support that boy, but I don't want to have him around." "He is rather hard." "You know I think that boy's got a future. But personally I don't want him around." "Jake's rather the same way." "He gives me the willys." "Well," the | known who was as charming when she was drunk as when she was sober." "You haven't been around much, have you?" "Yes, my dear. I have been around very much. I have been around a very great deal." "Drink your wine," said Brett. "We've all been around. I dare say Jake here has seen as much as you have." "My dear, I am sure Mr. Barnes has seen a lot. Don't think I don't think so, sir. I have seen a lot, too." "Of course you have, my dear," Brett said. "I was only ragging." "I have been in seven wars and four revolutions," the count said. "Soldiering?" Brett asked. "Sometimes, my dear. And I have got arrow wounds. Have you ever seen arrow wounds?" "Let's have a look at them." The count stood up, unbuttoned his vest, and opened his shirt. He pulled up the undershirt onto his chest and stood, his chest black, and big stomach muscles bulging under the light. "You see them?" Below the line where his ribs stopped were two raised white welts. "See on the back where they come out." Above the small of the back were the same two scars, raised as thick as a finger. "I say. Those are something." "Clean through."<|quote|>The count was tucking in his shirt.</|quote|>"Where did you get those?" I asked. "In Abyssinia. When I was twenty-one years old." "What were you doing?" asked Brett. "Were you in the army?" "I was on a business trip, my dear." "I told you he was one of us. Didn't I?" Brett turned to me. "I love you, count. You're a darling." "You make me very happy, my dear. But it isn't true." "Don't be an ass." "You see, Mr. Barnes, it is because I have lived very much that now I can enjoy everything so well. Don't you find it like that?" "Yes. Absolutely." "I know," said the count. "That is the secret. You must get to know the values." "Doesn't anything ever happen to your values?" Brett asked. "No. Not any more." "Never fall in love?" "Always," said the count. "I am always in love." "What does that do to your values?" "That, too, has got a place in my values." "You haven't any values. You're dead, that's all." "No, my dear. You're not right. I'm not dead at all." We drank three bottles of the champagne and the count left the basket in my kitchen. We dined at a restaurant in the Bois. It was a good dinner. Food had an excellent place in the count's values. So did wine. The count was in fine form during the meal. So was Brett. It was a good party. "Where would you like to go?" asked the count after dinner. We were the only people left in the restaurant. The two waiters were standing over against the door. They wanted to go home. "We might go up on the hill," Brett said. "Haven't we had a splendid party?" The count was beaming. He was very happy. "You are very nice people," he said. He was smoking a cigar again. "Why don't you get married, you two?" "We want to lead our own lives," I said. "We have our careers," Brett said. "Come on. Let's get out of this." "Have another brandy," the count said. "Get it on the hill." "No. Have it here where it is quiet." "You and your quiet," said Brett. "What is it men feel about quiet?" "We like it," said the count. "Like you like noise, my dear." "All right," said Brett. "Let's have one." "Sommelier!" the count called. "Yes, sir." "What is the oldest brandy you have?" "Eighteen eleven, sir." "Bring us a bottle." "I say. Don't be ostentatious. Call him off, Jake." "Listen, my dear. I get more value for my money in old brandy than in any other antiquities." "Got many antiquities?" "I got a houseful." Finally we went up to Montmartre. Inside Zelli's it was crowded, smoky, and noisy. The music hit you as you went in. Brett and I danced. It was so crowded we could barely move. The nigger drummer waved at Brett. We were caught in the jam, dancing in one place in front of him. "Hahre you?" "Great." "Thaats good." He was all teeth and lips. "He's a great friend of mine," Brett said. "Damn good drummer." The music stopped and we started toward the table where the count sat. Then the music started again and we danced. I looked at | The Sun Also Rises |
The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death. | No speaker | I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" | saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they | faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and | a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent | a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it | my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; | stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine," replied Monks. "But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies' beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim. Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's approach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers. Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, "I'll do it!" He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest. He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by the fireside, and | Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."<|quote|>The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.</|quote|>"What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words trusting that he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and important authority is delegated hastens to pay them that respect which their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of | Oliver Twist |
"You don't say so." | Andrey Vassilitch Kovrin | weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her | for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest | the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the | who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to | thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that." "I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." | currants. But what made the garden most cheerful and gave it a lively air, was the continual coming and going in it, from early morning till evening; people with wheelbarrows, shovels, and watering-cans swarmed round the trees and bushes, in the avenues and the flower-beds, like ants.... Kovrin arrived at Pesotsky's at ten o'clock in the evening. He found Tanya and her father, Yegor Semyonitch, in great anxiety. The clear starlight sky and the thermometer foretold a frost towards morning, and meanwhile Ivan Karlovitch, the gardener, had gone to the town, and they had no one to rely upon. At supper they talked of nothing but the morning frost, and it was settled that Tanya should not go to bed, and between twelve and one should walk through the garden, and see that everything was done properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that." "I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. | set off, driving in a carriage, to visit Pesotsky, his former guardian, who had brought him up, and was a horticulturist well known all over Russia. The distance from Kovrinka to Borissovka was reckoned only a little over fifty miles. To drive along a soft road in May in a comfortable carriage with springs was a real pleasure. Pesotsky had an immense house with columns and lions, off which the stucco was peeling, and with a footman in swallow-tails at the entrance. The old park, laid out in the English style, gloomy and severe, stretched for almost three-quarters of a mile to the river, and there ended in a steep, precipitous clay bank, where pines grew with bare roots that looked like shaggy paws; the water shone below with an unfriendly gleam, and the peewits flew up with a plaintive cry, and there one always felt that one must sit down and write a ballad. But near the house itself, in the courtyard and orchard, which together with the nurseries covered ninety acres, it was all life and gaiety even in bad weather. Such marvellous roses, lilies, camellias; such tulips of all possible shades, from glistening white to sooty black--such a wealth of flowers, in fact, Kovrin had never seen anywhere as at Pesotsky's. It was only the beginning of spring, and the real glory of the flower-beds was still hidden away in the hot-houses. But even the flowers along the avenues, and here and there in the flower-beds, were enough to make one feel, as one walked about the garden, as though one were in a realm of tender colours, especially in the early morning when the dew was glistening on every petal. What was the decorative part of the garden, and what Pesotsky contemptuously spoke of as rubbish, had at one time in his childhood given Kovrin an impression of fairyland. Every sort of caprice, of elaborate monstrosity and mockery at Nature was here. There were espaliers of fruit-trees, a pear-tree in the shape of a pyramidal poplar, spherical oaks and lime-trees, an apple-tree in the shape of an umbrella, plum-trees trained into arches, crests, candelabra, and even into the number 1862--the year when Pesotsky first took up horticulture. One came across, too, lovely, graceful trees with strong, straight stems like palms, and it was only by looking intently that one could recognise these trees as gooseberries or currants. But what made the garden most cheerful and gave it a lively air, was the continual coming and going in it, from early morning till evening; people with wheelbarrows, shovels, and watering-cans swarmed round the trees and bushes, in the avenues and the flower-beds, like ants.... Kovrin arrived at Pesotsky's at ten o'clock in the evening. He found Tanya and her father, Yegor Semyonitch, in great anxiety. The clear starlight sky and the thermometer foretold a frost towards morning, and meanwhile Ivan Karlovitch, the gardener, had gone to the town, and they had no one to rely upon. At supper they talked of nothing but the morning frost, and it was settled that Tanya should not go to bed, and between twelve and one should walk through the garden, and see that everything was done properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that." "I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, it always seemed to be fresher and brighter in the house, as though the covers had been taken off the lustres and the furniture. I was only a little girl then, but yet I understood it." She talked a long while and with great feeling. For some reason the idea came into his head that in the course of the summer he might grow fond of this little, weak, talkative creature, might be carried away and fall in love; in their position it was so possible and natural! This thought touched and amused him; he bent down to her sweet, preoccupied face and hummed softly: "'Onyegin, I won't conceal it; I madly love Tatiana....'" By the time they reached the house, Yegor Semyonitch had got up. Kovrin did not feel sleepy; he talked to the old man and went to the garden with him. Yegor Semyonitch was a tall, broad-shouldered, corpulent man, and he suffered from asthma, yet he walked so fast that it was hard work to hurry after him. He had an extremely preoccupied air; he was always hurrying somewhere, with an expression that suggested that if he were one minute late all would be ruined! "Here is a business, brother ..." he began, standing still to take breath. "On the surface of the ground, as you see, is frost; but if you raise the thermometer on a stick fourteen feet above the ground, there it is warm.... Why is that?" "I really don't know," said Kovrin, and he laughed. "H'm!... One can't know everything, of course.... However large the intellect may be, you can't find room for everything in it. I suppose you still go in chiefly for philosophy?" "Yes, I lecture in psychology; I am working at philosophy in general." "And it does not bore you?" "On the contrary, it's all I live for." "Well, God bless you!..." said Yegor Semyonitch, meditatively stroking his grey whiskers. "God bless you!... I am delighted about you ... delighted, my boy...." But suddenly he listened, and, with a terrible face, ran off and quickly disappeared behind the trees in a cloud of smoke. "Who tied this horse to an apple-tree?" Kovrin heard his despairing, heart-rending cry. "Who is the low scoundrel who has dared to tie this horse to an apple-tree? | could recognise these trees as gooseberries or currants. But what made the garden most cheerful and gave it a lively air, was the continual coming and going in it, from early morning till evening; people with wheelbarrows, shovels, and watering-cans swarmed round the trees and bushes, in the avenues and the flower-beds, like ants.... Kovrin arrived at Pesotsky's at ten o'clock in the evening. He found Tanya and her father, Yegor Semyonitch, in great anxiety. The clear starlight sky and the thermometer foretold a frost towards morning, and meanwhile Ivan Karlovitch, the gardener, had gone to the town, and they had no one to rely upon. At supper they talked of nothing but the morning frost, and it was settled that Tanya should not go to bed, and between twelve and one should walk through the garden, and see that everything was done properly, and Yegor Semyonitch should get up at three o'clock or even earlier. Kovrin sat with Tanya all the evening, and after midnight went out with her into the garden. It was cold. There was a strong smell of burning already in the garden. In the big orchard, which was called the commercial garden, and which brought Yegor Semyonitch several thousand clear profit, a thick, black, acrid smoke was creeping over the ground and, curling around the trees, was saving those thousands from the frost. Here the trees were arranged as on a chessboard, in straight and regular rows like ranks of soldiers, and this severe pedantic regularity, and the fact that all the trees were of the same size, and had tops and trunks all exactly alike, made them look monotonous and even dreary. Kovrin and Tanya walked along the rows where fires of dung, straw, and all sorts of refuse were smouldering, and from time to time they were met by labourers who wandered in the smoke like shadows. The only trees in flower were the cherries, plums, and certain sorts of apples, but the whole garden was plunged in smoke, and it was only near the nurseries that Kovrin could breathe freely. "Even as a child I used to sneeze from the smoke here," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "but to this day I don't understand how smoke can keep off frost." "Smoke takes the place of clouds when there are none ..." answered Tanya. "And what do you want clouds for?" "In overcast and cloudy weather there is no frost."<|quote|>"You don't say so."</|quote|>He laughed and took her arm. Her broad, very earnest face, chilled with the frost, with her delicate black eyebrows, the turned-up collar of her coat, which prevented her moving her head freely, and the whole of her thin, graceful figure, with her skirts tucked up on account of the dew, touched him. "Good heavens! she is grown up," he said. "When I went away from here last, five years ago, you were still a child. You were such a thin, longlegged creature, with your hair hanging on your shoulders; you used to wear short frocks, and I used to tease you, calling you a heron.... What time does!" "Yes, five years!" sighed Tanya. "Much water has flowed since then. Tell me, Andryusha, honestly," she began eagerly, looking him in the face: "do you feel strange with us now? But why do I ask you? You are a man, you live your own interesting life, you are somebody.... To grow apart is so natural! But however that may be, Andryusha, I want you to think of us as your people. We have a right to that." "I do, Tanya." "On your word of honour?" "Yes, on my word of honour." "You were surprised this evening that we have so many of your photographs. You know my father adores you. Sometimes it seems to me that he loves you more than he does me. He is proud of you. You are a clever, extraordinary man, you have made a brilliant career for yourself, and he is persuaded that you have turned out like this because he brought you up. I don't try to prevent him from thinking so. Let him." Dawn was already beginning, and that was especially perceptible from the distinctness with which the coils of smoke and the tops of the trees began to stand out in the air. "It's time we were asleep, though," said Tanya, "and it's cold, too." She took his arm. "Thank you for coming, Andryusha. We have only uninteresting acquaintances, and not many of them. We have only the garden, the garden, the garden, and nothing else. Standards, half-standards," she laughed. "Aports, Reinettes, Borovinkas, budded stocks, grafted stocks.... All, all our life has gone into the garden. I never even dream of anything but apples and pears. Of course, it is very nice and useful, but sometimes one longs for something else for variety. I remember that when you used to come to us for the summer holidays, or simply a visit, | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (6) |
"What in the world are they after?" | Mary Datchet | make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own | gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass | some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks | was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups | chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was | personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of | humanity appeared to be in some way connected with Bloomsbury, and faded distinctly by the time she crossed the main road; then a belated organ-grinder in Holborn set her thoughts dancing incongruously; and by the time she was crossing the great misty square of Lincoln s Inn Fields, she was cold and depressed again, and horribly clear-sighted. The dark removed the stimulus of human companionship, and a tear actually slid down her cheek, accompanying a sudden conviction within her that she loved Ralph, and that he didn t love her. All dark and empty now was the path where they had walked that morning, and the sparrows silent in the bare trees. But the lights in her own building soon cheered her; all these different states of mind were submerged in the deep flood of desires, thoughts, perceptions, antagonisms, which washed perpetually at the base of her being, to rise into prominence in turn when the conditions of the upper world were favorable. She put off the hour of clear thought until Christmas, saying to herself, as she lit her fire, that it is impossible to think anything out in London; and, no doubt, Ralph wouldn t come at Christmas, and she would take long walks into the heart of the country, and decide this question and all the others that puzzled her. Meanwhile, she thought, drawing her feet up on to the fender, life was full of complexity; life was a thing one must love to the last fiber of it. She had sat there for five minutes or so, and her thoughts had had time to grow dim, when there came a ring at her bell. Her eye brightened; she felt immediately convinced that Ralph had come to visit her. Accordingly, she waited a moment before opening the door; she wanted to feel her hands secure upon the reins of all the troublesome emotions which the sight of Ralph would certainly arouse. She composed herself unnecessarily, however, for she had to admit, not Ralph, but Katharine and William Rodney. Her first impression was that they were both extremely well dressed. She felt herself shabby and slovenly beside them, and did not know how she should entertain them, nor could she guess why they had come. She had heard nothing of their engagement. But after the first disappointment, she was pleased, for she felt instantly that Katharine was a personality, and, moreover, she need not now exercise her self-control. "We were passing and saw a light in your window, so we came up," Katharine explained, standing and looking very tall and distinguished and rather absent-minded. "We have been to see some pictures," said William. "Oh, dear," he exclaimed, looking about him, "this room reminds me of one of the worst hours in my existence when I read a paper, and you all sat round and jeered at me. Katharine was the worst. I could feel her gloating over every mistake I made. Miss Datchet was kind. Miss Datchet just made it possible for me to get through, I remember." Sitting down, he drew off his light yellow gloves, and began slapping his knees with them. His vitality was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble. "I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss | The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry.<|quote|>"What in the world are they after?"</|quote|>she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He | Night And Day |
"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine." | Mr. Darcy | letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with | always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who | to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not | "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters | made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast." "You are mistaken. I write rather slowly." "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness | the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast." "You are mistaken. I write rather slowly." "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?" "Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies." "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay | and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield. Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear. "I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast." "You are mistaken. I write rather slowly." "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?" "Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies." "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not go--and, at another word, might stay a month." "You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shewn him off now much more than he did himself." "I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could." "Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?" "Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter, Darcy must speak for himself." "You expect me to account for opinions which you chuse to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety." "To yield readily--easily--to the _persuasion_ of a friend is no merit with you." "To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either." "You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?" "Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as | the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill." Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not." Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. CHAPTER X. The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter, and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game. Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady either on his hand-writing, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in unison with her opinion of each. "How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!" He made no answer. "You write uncommonly fast." "You are mistaken. I write rather slowly." "How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!" "It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours." "Pray tell your sister that I long to see her." "I have already told her so once, by your desire." "I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well." "Thank you--but I always mend my own." "How can you contrive to write so even?" He was silent. "Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's." "Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again?--At present I have not room to do them justice." "Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"<|quote|>"They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine."</|quote|>"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter, with ease, cannot write ill." "That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother--" "because he does _not_ write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables.--Do not you, Darcy?" "My style of writing is very different from yours." "Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest." "My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them--by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents." "Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof." "Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast." "And which of the two do you call _my_ little recent piece of modesty?" "The indirect boast;--for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing any thing with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself--and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?" "Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to shew off before the ladies." "I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you | Pride And Prejudice |
"their clocks must be fast." | Müller | "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I | start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel | listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the | to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night." We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the | there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night." We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is | almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night." We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring. When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning-- "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard. * * To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then | Tjaden unbuttoned Himmelstoss's braces and pulled down his trousers, holding the whip meantime in his teeth. Then he stood up and set to work. It was a wonderful picture: Himmelstoss on the ground; Haie bending over him with a fiendish grin and his mouth open with blood-lust, Himmelstoss's head on his knees; then the convulsed, striped drawers, the knock knees, executing at every blow most original movements in the lowered breeches, and towering over them like a woodcutter the indefatigable Tjaden. In the end we had to drag him away to get our turn. Finally Haie stood Himmelstoss on his feet again and gave one last personal remonstrance. As he stretched out his right arm preparatory to giving him a box on the ear he looked as if he were going to reach down a star. Himmelstoss staggered. Haie stood him up again, made ready and fetched him a second, well-aimed beauty with the left hand. Himmelstoss yelled and fell down on all fours cursing. His striped postman's backside gleamed in the moonlight. We disappeared at full speed. Haie looked round once again and said wrathfully, satisfied and rather mysteriously: "Revenge is black-pudding." Himmelstoss ought to have been pleased; his saying that we should each educate one another had borne fruit for himself. We had become successful students of his method. He never discovered whom he had to thank for the business. At any rate he scored a bed-cover out of it; for when we returned a few hours later to look for it, it was no longer to be found. That evening's work made us more or less content to leave next morning. And an old buffer was pleased to describe us as "young heroes." CHAPTER IV We have to go up on wiring fatigue. The motor lorries roll up after dark. We climb in. It is a warm evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light. We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night." We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring. When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning-- "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard. * * To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and gives him a new lease of ten seconds of life, receives him again and often for ever. Earth!--Earth!--Earth! Earth with thy folds, and hollows and holes, into which a man may fling himself and crouch down! In the spasm of terror, under the hailing of annihilation, in the bellowing death of the explosions, O Earth, thou grantest us the great resisting surge of new-won life. Our being, almost utterly carried away by the fury of the storm, streams back through our hands from thee, and we, thy redeemed ones, bury ourselves in thee, and through the long minutes in a mute agony of hope bite into thee with our lips! At the sound of the first droning of the shells we rush back, in one part of our being, a thousand years. By the animal instinct that is awakened in us we are led and protected. It is not conscious; it is far quicker, much more sure, less fallible, than consciousness. One cannot explain it. A man is walking along without thought or heed;--suddenly he throws himself down on the ground and a storm of fragments flies harmlessly over him;--yet he cannot remember either to have heard the shell coming or to have thought of flinging himself down. But had he not abandoned himself to the impulse he would now be a heap of mangled flesh. It is this other, this second sight in us, that has thrown us to the ground and saved us, without our knowing how. If it were not so, there would not be one man alive from Flanders to the Vosges. We march up, moody or good-tempered soldiers--we reach the zone where the front begins and become on the instant human animals. * * An indigent looking wood receives us. We pass by the soup-kitchens. Under cover of the wood we climb out. The lorries turn back. They are to collect us again in the morning, before dawn. Mist and the smoke of guns lie breast-high over the fields. The moon is shining. Along the road troops file. Their helmets gleam softly in the moonlight. The heads and the rifles stand out above the white mist, nodding heads, rocking carriers of guns. Farther on the mist ends. Here the | shelter we feel drawn together. Even the stingy Tjaden gives me a cigarette and then a light. We stand jammed in together, shoulder to shoulder, there is no room to sit. But we do not expect that. Müller is in a good mood for once; he is wearing his new boots. The engines drone, the lorries bump and rattle. The roads are worn and full of holes. We dare not show a light so we lurch along and are often almost pitched out. That does not worry us, however. It can happen if it likes; a broken arm is better than a hole in the guts, and many a man would be thankful enough for such a chance of finding his way home again. Beside us stream the munition-columns in long files. They are making the pace, they overtake us going forward. We joke with them and they answer back. A wall becomes visible, it belongs to a house which lies on the side of the road. I suddenly prick up my ears. Am I deceived? Again I hear distinctly the cackle of geese. A glance at Katczinsky--a glance from him to me; we understand one another. "Kat, I hear some aspirants for the frying-pan over there." He nods. "It will be attended to when we come back. I have their number." Of course Kat has their number. He knows all about every leg of goose within a radius of fifteen miles. The lorries arrive at the artillery lines. The gun-emplacements are camouflaged with bushes against aerial observation, and look like a kind of military Feast of the Tabernacles. These branches might seem gay and cheerful were not cannon embowered there. The air becomes acrid with the smoke of the guns and the fog. The fumes of powder taste bitter on the tongue. The roar of the guns makes our lorry stagger, the reverberation rolls raging away to the rear, everything quakes. Our faces change imperceptibly. We are not, indeed, in the front-line, but only in the reserves, yet in every face can be read: This is the Front, now we are within its embrace. It is not fear. Men who have been up as often as we have become thick skinned. Only the young recruits are agitated. Kat explains to them: "That was a twelve-inch. You hear the explosion first and afterwards comes the sound of the gun." But the hollow sound of the firing does not reach us. It is swallowed up in the general murmur of the front. Kat listens: "There'll be a bombardment to-night." We all listen. The front is restless. "The Tommies are firing already," says Kropp. The shelling can be heard distinctly. It is the English batteries to the right of our section. They are beginning an hour too soon. According to us they start punctually at ten o'clock. "What's got them?" says Müller,<|quote|>"their clocks must be fast."</|quote|>"There'll be a bombardment, I tell you, I can feel it in my bones." Kat shrugs his shoulders. Three shells land beside us. The burst of flame shoots across the fog, the fragments howl and drone. We shiver and are glad to think that we shall be back in the huts early in the morning. Our faces are neither paler nor more flushed than usual; they are not more tense nor more flabby--and yet they are changed. We feel that in our blood a contact has shot home. That is no figure of speech; it is fact. It is the front, the consciousness of the front, that makes this contact. The moment that the first shells whistle over and the air is rent with the explosions there is suddenly in our veins, in our hands, in our eyes a tense waiting, a watching, a heightened alertness, a strange sharpening of the senses. The body with one bound is in full readiness. It often seems to me as though it were the vibrating, shuddering air that with a noiseless leap springs upon us; or as though the front itself emitted an electric current which awakened unknown nerve-centres. Every time it is the same. We start out for the front plain soldiers, either cheerful or gloomy: then come the first gun-emplacements and every word of our speech has a new ring. When Kat stands in front of the hut and says: "There'll be a bombardment," that is merely his own opinion; but if he says it here, then the sentence has the sharpness of a bayonet in the moonlight, it cuts clean through the thought, it thrusts nearer and speaks to this unknown thing that is awakened in us, a dark meaning-- "There'll be a bombardment." Perhaps it is our inner and most secret life that shivers and falls on guard. * * To me the front is a mysterious whirlpool. Though I am in still water far away from its centre, I feel the whirl of the vortex sucking me slowly, irresistibly, inescapably into itself. From the earth, from the air, sustaining forces pour into us--mostly from the earth. To no man does the earth mean so much as to the soldier. When he presses himself down upon her long and powerfully, when he buries his face and his limbs deep in her from the fear of death by shell-fire, then she is his only friend, his brother, his mother; he stifles his terror and his cries in her silence and her security; she shelters him and gives him a new lease of ten seconds of life, receives him again and | All Quiet on the Western Front |
'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, | No speaker | jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at | mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at | Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my | you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of | "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. | Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, | would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most. Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul. The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that, though she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her. To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work." "No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house." "Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll tell Lucy." He glanced at the curtains dismally. "Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother; he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners." "I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing." "Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in." "You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said:" 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' "I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said" 'Oh, he's like me--better detached.' "I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so pleasant, at least--I can't explain." "You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties." The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He | just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said: "I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please." Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson." His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work. Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall. "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get." In the morning they left for Rome. Part Two Chapter VIII: Medieval The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man. Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there. "Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick." "For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally. Freddy did not move or reply. "I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said" 'No' "properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:"<|quote|>'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading,</|quote|>"I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded. "What do you mean?" "He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!" "Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be asked?" "What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?" "I said to Cecil," 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of mine!'" "What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect. "The bother is this," began Freddy. Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window. "Freddy, you must come. There they still are!" "I don't see you ought to go peeping like that." "Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?" But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased. "The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission', which I did give--that is to say, I said," 'I don't mind' "--well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would strengthen his hand." "I hope you gave a careful answer, dear." "I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me." "Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?" "Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot's in it. | A Room With A View |
"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." | Milly | dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. | "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did | goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, | at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; | course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they | their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of | have tea." "Can I have an ice?" "I don't expect they've got an ice. But you can have some nice tea." "But I want an ice." "You shall have an ice when you get to Brighton. Now be a good girl and play with your puzzle or mother won't take you to the seaside again." "The Awful Child of popular fiction," said Jock as he left Tony. Winnie sustained the part throughout the journey to Brighton. She was not inventive but she knew the classic routine thoroughly, even to such commonplace but alarming devices as breathing heavily, grunting and complaining of nausea. * * * * * Rooms at the hotel had been engaged for Tony by the solicitors. It was therefore a surprise to the reception clerk when Winnie arrived. "We have reserved in your name double and single communicating rooms, bathroom and sitting-room," he said. "We did not understand you were bringing your daughter. Will you require a further room?" "Oh, Winnie can come in with me," said Milly. The two detectives who were standing nearby at the counter exchanged glances of disapproval. Tony wrote _Mr and Mrs Last_ in the Visitors' Book. "And daughter," said the clerk with his finger on the place. Tony hesitated. "She is my niece," he said, and inscribed her name on another line, as _Miss Smith_. The detective, registering below, remarked to his colleague, "He got out of that all right. Quite smart. But I don't like the look of this case. Most irregular. Sets a nasty, respectable note bringing a kid into it. We've got the firm to consider. It doesn't do them any good to get mixed up with the King's Proctor." "How about a quick one?" said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell," said Baby. "You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some | said his colleague indifferently. Upstairs, Winnie said, "Where's the sea?" "Just there across the street." "I want to go and see it." "But it's dark now, pet. You shall see it to-morrow." "I want to see it to-night." "You take her to see it now," said Tony. "Sure you won't be lonely?" "Quite sure." "We won't be long." "That's all right. You let her see it properly." Tony went down to the bar where he was pleased to find the two detectives. He felt the need of male company. "Good evening," he said. They looked at him askance. Everything in this case seemed to be happening as though with deliberate design to shock their professional feelings. "Good evening," said the senior detective. "Nasty, raw evening." "Have a drink." Since Tony was paying their expenses in any case, the offer seemed superfluous, but the junior detective brightened instinctively and said, "Don't mind if I do." "Come and sit down. I feel rather lonely." They took their drinks to a table out of hearing of the barman. "Mr Last, sir, this is all _wrong_," said the senior detective. "You haven't no business to recognize us at all. I don't know what they'd say at the office." "Best respects," said the junior detective. "This is Mr James, my colleague," said the senior detective. "My name is Blenkinsop. James is new to this kind of work." "So am I," said Tony. "A pity we've such a nasty week-end for the job," said Blenkinsop, "very damp and blowy. Gets me in the joints." "Tell me," said Tony. "Is it usual to bring children on an expedition of this kind?" "It is _not_." "I thought it couldn't be." "Since you ask me, Mr Last, I regard it as most irregular and injudicious. It looks wrong, and cases of this kind depend very much on making the right impression. Of course as far as James and me are concerned, the matter is O.K. There won't be a word about it in our evidence. But you can't trust the servants. You might very likely happen to strike one who was new to the courts, who'd blurt it out, and then where would we be. I don't like it, Mr Last, and that's the truth." "You can't feel more strongly about it than I do." "Fond of kids myself," said James, who was new to this kind of work. "How about one with us?" "Tell me," said Tony, when they had been at their table some little time. "You must have observed numerous couples in your time, qualifying for a divorce; tell me, how do they get through their day?" "It's easier in the summer," said Blenkinsop, "the young ladies usually bathe and the gentlemen read the papers on the esplanade; some goes for motor drives and some just hangs around the bar. They're mostly glad when Monday comes." * * * * * Milly and her child were in the sitting-room when Tony came up. "I've ordered an ice," said Milly. "Quite right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner."<|quote|>"No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here."</|quote|>Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a | A Handful Of Dust |
murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne. | No speaker | quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," | you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker | young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with | and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I | great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. | seen places," she resumed, "that I should put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne s interrogation, "There s Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn t heard half so much about it." "The best place we ve seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It s the best place I ve seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we ve got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It s on account of the society--the society s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there s nothing like Rome. Of course, it s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent | exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I m sure there was nothing he wouldn t try. He was just going to try something new when we came off. Mr. Miller wanted Daisy to see Europe for herself. But I wrote to Mr. Miller that it seems as if I couldn t get on without Dr. Davis. At Schenectady he stands at the very top; and there s a great deal of sickness there, too. It affects my sleep." Winterbourne had a good deal of pathological gossip with Dr. Davis s patient, during which Daisy chattered unremittingly to her own companion. The young man asked Mrs. Miller how she was pleased with Rome. "Well, I must say I am disappointed," she answered. "We had heard so much about it; I suppose we had heard too much. But we couldn t help that. We had been led to expect something different." "Ah, wait a little, and you will become very fond of it," said Winterbourne. "I hate it worse and worse every day!" cried Randolph. "You are like the infant Hannibal," said Winterbourne. "No, I ain t!" Randolph declared at a venture. "You are not much like an infant," said his mother. "But we have seen places," she resumed, "that I should put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne s interrogation, "There s Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn t heard half so much about it." "The best place we ve seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It s the best place I ve seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we ve got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It s on account of the society--the society s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there s nothing like Rome. Of course, it s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the hour for the throng of carriages and of contemplative pedestrians. "I don t think it s safe, my dear," said Mrs. Walker. "Neither do I," subjoined Mrs. Miller. "You ll get the fever, as sure as you live. Remember what Dr. Davis told you!" "Give her some medicine before she goes," said Randolph. The company had risen to its feet; Daisy, still showing her pretty teeth, bent over and kissed her hostess. "Mrs. Walker, you are too perfect," she said. "I m not going alone; I am going to meet a friend." "Your friend won t keep you from getting the fever," Mrs. Miller observed. "Is it Mr. Giovanelli?" asked the hostess. Winterbourne was watching the young girl; at this question his attention quickened. She stood there, smiling and smoothing her bonnet ribbons; she glanced at Winterbourne. Then, while she glanced and smiled, she answered, without a shade of hesitation, "Mr. Giovanelli--the beautiful Giovanelli." "My dear young friend," said Mrs. Walker, taking her hand pleadingly, "don t walk off to the Pincio at this hour to meet a beautiful Italian." "Well, he speaks English," said Mrs. Miller. "Gracious me!" Daisy exclaimed, "I don t to do anything improper. There s an easy way to settle it." She continued to glance at Winterbourne. "The Pincio is only a hundred yards distant; and if Mr. Winterbourne were as polite as he pretends, he would offer to walk with me!" Winterbourne s politeness hastened to affirm itself, and the young girl gave him gracious leave to accompany her. They passed downstairs before her mother, and at the door Winterbourne perceived Mrs. Miller s carriage drawn up, with the ornamental courier whose acquaintance he had made at Vevey seated within. "Goodbye, Eugenio!" cried Daisy; "I m going to take a walk." The distance from the Via Gregoriana to the beautiful garden at the other end of the Pincian Hill is, in fact, rapidly traversed. As the day was splendid, however, and the concourse of vehicles, walkers, and loungers numerous, the young Americans found their progress much delayed. This fact was highly agreeable to Winterbourne, in spite of his consciousness of his singular situation. The slow-moving, idly gazing Roman crowd bestowed much attention upon the extremely pretty young foreign lady who was passing through it upon his arm; and he wondered what on earth had been in Daisy s mind when she proposed to expose herself, unattended, to its appreciation. His own mission, to her sense, apparently, was to consign her to the hands of Mr. Giovanelli; but Winterbourne, at once annoyed and gratified, resolved that he would do no such thing. "Why haven t you been to see me?" asked Daisy. "You can t get out of that." "I have had the honor of telling you that I have only just | you will become very fond of it," said Winterbourne. "I hate it worse and worse every day!" cried Randolph. "You are like the infant Hannibal," said Winterbourne. "No, I ain t!" Randolph declared at a venture. "You are not much like an infant," said his mother. "But we have seen places," she resumed, "that I should put a long way before Rome." And in reply to Winterbourne s interrogation, "There s Zurich," she concluded, "I think Zurich is lovely; and we hadn t heard half so much about it." "The best place we ve seen is the City of Richmond!" said Randolph. "He means the ship," his mother explained. "We crossed in that ship. Randolph had a good time on the City of Richmond." "It s the best place I ve seen," the child repeated. "Only it was turned the wrong way." "Well, we ve got to turn the right way some time," said Mrs. Miller with a little laugh. Winterbourne expressed the hope that her daughter at least found some gratification in Rome, and she declared that Daisy was quite carried away. "It s on account of the society--the society s splendid. She goes round everywhere; she has made a great number of acquaintances. Of course she goes round more than I do. I must say they have been very sociable; they have taken her right in. And then she knows a great many gentlemen. Oh, she thinks there s nothing like Rome. Of course, it s a great deal pleasanter for a young lady if she knows plenty of gentlemen." By this time Daisy had turned her attention again to Winterbourne. "I ve been telling Mrs. Walker how mean you were!" the young girl announced. "And what is the evidence you have offered?" asked Winterbourne, rather annoyed at Miss Miller s want of appreciation of the zeal of an admirer who on his way down to Rome had stopped neither at Bologna nor at Florence, simply because of a certain sentimental impatience. He remembered that a cynical compatriot had once told him that American women--the pretty ones, and this gave a largeness to the axiom--were at once the most exacting in the world and the least endowed with a sense of indebtedness. "Why, you were awfully mean at Vevey," said Daisy. "You wouldn t do anything. You wouldn t stay there when I asked you." "My dearest young lady," cried Winterbourne, with eloquence, "have I come all the way to Rome to encounter your reproaches?" "Just hear him say that!" said Daisy to her hostess, giving a twist to a bow on this lady s dress. "Did you ever hear anything so quaint?" "So quaint, my dear?"<|quote|>murmured Mrs. Walker in the tone of a partisan of Winterbourne.</|quote|>"Well, I don t know," said Daisy, fingering Mrs. Walker s ribbons. "Mrs. Walker, I want to tell you something." "Mother-r," interposed Randolph, with his rough ends to his words, "I tell you you ve got to go. Eugenio ll raise--something!" "I m not afraid of Eugenio," said Daisy with a toss of her head. "Look here, Mrs. Walker," she went on, "you know I m coming to your party." "I am delighted to hear it." "I ve got a lovely dress!" "I am very sure of that." "But I want to ask a favor--permission to bring a friend." "I shall be happy to see any of your friends," said Mrs. Walker, turning with a smile to Mrs. Miller. "Oh, they are not my friends," answered Daisy s mamma, smiling shyly in her own fashion. "I never spoke to them." "It s an intimate friend of mine--Mr. Giovanelli," said Daisy without a tremor in her clear little voice or a shadow on her brilliant little face. Mrs. Walker was silent a moment; she gave a rapid glance at Winterbourne. "I shall be glad to see Mr. Giovanelli," she then said. "He s an Italian," Daisy pursued with the prettiest serenity. "He s a great friend of mine; he s the handsomest man in the world--except Mr. Winterbourne! He knows plenty of Italians, but he wants to know some Americans. He thinks ever so much of Americans. He s tremendously clever. He s perfectly lovely!" It was settled that this brilliant personage should be brought to Mrs. Walker s party, and then Mrs. Miller prepared to take her leave. "I guess we ll go back to the hotel," she said. "You may go back to the hotel, Mother, but I m going to take a walk," said Daisy. "She s going to walk with Mr. Giovanelli," Randolph proclaimed. "I am going to the Pincio," said Daisy, smiling. "Alone, my dear--at this hour?" Mrs. Walker asked. The afternoon was drawing to a close--it was the | Daisy Miller |
"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it." | Jem Wimble | said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with | as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," | thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! | like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." | do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that | an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed. "Kitty!" "Coming, father." Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that I don't believe you guilty. Why, I'd just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops." Don shook his head. "Well, of all the aggrawatin' chaps I ever did see, you're 'bout the worst, Mas' Don. Don't I tell you it'll be all right?" "No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates." "Well, what of that?" "What of that?" cried Don, passionately. "Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story." "Let him!" cried Jem, contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It | would have melted, and all would have been well; but accustomed to manage men with an iron rule, Uncle Josiah had somehow, in spite of his straightforward, manly, and just character, seemed to repel the boy whose charge he had taken, and instead now of making the slightest advance, he said to himself, "It is not my duty to eat humble pie before the obstinate young cub. It will be a severe lesson for him, and will do him good." So the breach widened. Don seemed to grow sulky and sullen, when he was longing to cast himself upon his mother's neck. The poor woman felt indignant at her son's conduct, and the last straw which broke the camel's back was laid on the top of the load by Kitty, who, moved by a desire to do good, made matters far worse by running across to Don, and in an impetuous way catching his hands and kissing him. "Don, dear!" she cried. The boy's face lit up. Here was some one who would believe him after all, and he responded to her advances by grasping her hands tightly in his. "Do, do speak, Don dear, and beg father to forgive you," she cried. "Tell him it was a mistake, and that you will never do so again." Don let fall her hands, the deep scowl came over his brow again, and he half turned away. "No, no, Don, dear," she whispered; "pray don't be obstinate. Confess that you did it, and promise father to do better in the future. He will forgive you; I know he will." Don turned his back with an impatient gesture, and Kitty burst into tears, and went slowly to her aunt, to whose hands she clung. "Laura, dear," said Uncle Josiah, gravely, "I think we had better bring this painful interview to an end. You may rest assured that I shall do what is just and right by Don. He shall have every opportunity for clearing himself." "I am not guilty," cried Don, fiercely throwing back his head. "I thought so this morning, my boy," said the old merchant, gravely. "Your conduct now is making me think very differently. Laura, I will walk home with you, if you please." "Josiah! Don, my boy, pray, pray speak," cried Mrs Lavington, piteously. Don heard her appeal, and it thrilled him, but his uncle's words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed. "Kitty!" "Coming, father." Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that I don't believe you guilty. Why, I'd just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops." Don shook his head. "Well, of all the aggrawatin' chaps I ever did see, you're 'bout the worst, Mas' Don. Don't I tell you it'll be all right?" "No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates." "Well, what of that?" "What of that?" cried Don, passionately. "Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story." "Let him!" cried Jem, contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful foreign countries Mike told me about, and begin a new life." "Shall us, Mas' Don?" "Yes; why not? Get a passage in some ship, and stop where we like. He has told me of dozens of places that must be glorious." "Then we won't go," said Jem, decidedly. "If Mike Bannock says they're fine spots, don't you believe him; they're bad 'uns." "Then let's go and select a place for ourselves," cried Don. "Lor! I do wonder at you, Mas' Don, wantin' to leave such a mother as you've got, and asking me to leave my wife. Why, what would they do?" "I don't know," said Don, sadly. "They care very little for us now. You can do as you like; I shall go." "Nay, nay, you won't, my lad." "Yes, Jem, I think I shall." "Ah, that's better! Think about it." "I should have thought that you'd be glad to come with me, Jem." "So I should, my lad; but there's a some'at as they calls dooty as allus seems to have hold on me tight. You wait a bit, and see how things turn out." "But I shall have to appear before the magistrates, and be called a thief." "Ah, well, that won't be pleasant, my lad, of course; but wait." "Then you wouldn't go with me, Jem?" "Don't tempt a man, Mas' Don, because I should like to go with you, | uncle's words had raised up an obstinacy that was stronger than ever, and while longing to throw himself in his mother's arms--passionately longing so to do--his indignant pride held him back, and he stood with his head bent, as in obedience to her brother Mrs Lavington took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the office, weeping bitterly the while. Don did not look up to meet his mother's yearning gaze, but for months and years after he seemed to see that look when far away in the midst of peril, and too late he bitterly upbraided himself for his want of frankness and power to subdue his obstinate pride. "He thinks me guilty!" he said to himself, as he stood with his head bent, listening, and unaware of the fact that some one was still in the room, till a light step came towards him, his hand was caught, and his cheek rapidly kissed. "Kitty!" "Coming, father." Then there was a rapid step, the door closed, and Don stood in the same attitude, listening to the steps on the gravel, and then to the bang of the wicket-gate. Alone with his thoughts, and they were many and strange. What should he do? Go right away, and--and-- "Mas' Don." He looked up, and Jem stood at the door. CHAPTER SIX. JEM WIMBLE TALKS SENSE. "May I come in?" Don nodded. "The master's gone, and took the ladies 'long with him. Why, don't look like that, my lad. Your uncle don't think you took the money?" Don nodded. "But your mother don't, sir?" "Yes, Jem, she believes me guilty too." "I never did!" cried Jem, excitedly. "But sure-_lie_ Miss Kitty don't?" "Yes, Jem, they all think I'm a thief. Everybody does," cried Don, passionately. "No, everybody don't," said Jem, fiercely; "so don't talk like that, Mas' Don. Why, even I couldn't ha' stole that money--me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o' no consequence t'other day. So if I couldn't ha' done it, I'm quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn't." "But they think I did. Everybody thinks so." "Tell yer everybody don't think so," cried Jem, sharply. "I don't, and as for them, they've all got dust in their eyes, that's what's the matter with them, and they can't see clear. But didn't you tell 'em as you didn't?" "Yes, Jem," said Don, despondently; "at first."<|quote|>"Then why didn't you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it'll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don't say shake hands 'cause you're like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my 'art, my lad, and I says, don't be down over it."</|quote|>"You couldn't shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem," said Don, bitterly. "Look here, Mas' Don, I can't punch your head because, as aforesaid, you're young master, and I'm only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my 'art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts." "Yes, Jem, it was." "When you might ha' got all he told you out o' books, and the stories wouldn't ha' been quite so black." "Ah, well, it's all over now." "What's all over?" "My life here, Jem. I shall go right away." "Go? What?" "Right away. Abroad, I think." "And what'll your mother do?" "Forget me, I hope. I always was an unlucky fellow Jem." "What d'yer mean? Run away?" "Yes, I shall go away." "Well, that's clever, that is. Why, that's just the way to make 'em think you did it. Tshah! You stop like a man and face it out." "When everybody believes me guilty?" "Don't be so precious aggrawatin', my lad," cried Jem, plaintively. "Don't I keep on a-telling you that I don't believe you guilty. Why, I'd just as soon believe that I stole our sugar and sold bundles of tobacco-leaves to the marine store shops." Don shook his head. "Well, of all the aggrawatin' chaps I ever did see, you're 'bout the worst, Mas' Don. Don't I tell you it'll be all right?" "No, Jem, it will not be all right. I shall have to go before the magistrates." "Well, what of that?" "What of that?" cried Don, passionately. "Why, that scoundrel Mike will keep to his story." "Let him!" cried Jem, contemptuously. "Why, who'd ever believe him i' preference to you?" "My uncle--my mother--my cousin." "Not they, my boy. They don't believe it. They only think they do. They're sore just now, while it's all fresh. To-morrow by this time they will be a-hanging o' themselves round about your neck, and a-askin' of your pardon, and kissin' of you." "No, Jem, no." "Well, I don't mean as your uncle will be kissin' of you, of course; but he'll be sorry too, and a-shaking of your hand." Don shook his head. "There, don't get wagging your head like a Chinee figger, my lad. Take it like a man." "It seems that the only thing for me to do, Jem, is to tie up a bundle and take a stick, and go and try my luck somewhere else." "And you free and independent! Why, what would you say if you was me, tied up and married, and allus getting into trouble at home." "Not such trouble as this, Jem." "Not such trouble as this, my lad? Worser ever so much, for you don't deserve it, and I do, leastwise, my Sally says I do, and I suppose I do for being such a fool as to marry her." "You ought to be ashamed to talk like that, Jem." "So ought you, Mas' Don. I've often felt as if I should like to do as you say and run right off, but I don't do it." "You have felt like that, Jem?" cried Don, eagerly. "Yes, often, my lad." "Then let's go, Jem. Nobody cares for us here. Let's go right away to one of the beautiful | Don Lavington |
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled. | No speaker | and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended | for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going | powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, | a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?" "I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming," replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner. "I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar." Mr. Bumble coughed. "Now, | should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir." Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle. "Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, "to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?" "I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming," replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner. "I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar." Mr. Bumble coughed. "Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively. "What is it?" inquired the beadle. "Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. "It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin." "Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't | having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate. "Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. "(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.) My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!" Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's. "Lor, only think," said Mrs. Mann, running out, for the three boys had been removed by this time, "only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir." Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle. "Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, "to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?" "I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming," replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner. "I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar." Mr. Bumble coughed. "Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively. "What is it?" inquired the beadle. "Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. "It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin." "Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir." "No" "; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; "no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann." (Here she set down the glass.) "I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann." (He drew it towards him.) "You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann." (He stirred the gin-and-water.) "I I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann" "; and he swallowed half of it. "And now about business," said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. "The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day." "Bless him!" interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron. "And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish," said Bumble, "we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother's settlement, name, or condition." Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's reflection, "How comes he to have any name at all, then?" The beadle drew himself up with | that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of _her_ system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this. Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when _they_ went; and what more would the people have! It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate. "Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. "(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.) My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!" Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's. "Lor, only think," said Mrs. Mann, running out, for the three boys had been removed by this time, "only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir." Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle. "Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, "to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?" "I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming," replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner. "I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar." Mr. Bumble coughed. "Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively. "What is it?" inquired the beadle. "Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. "It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin." "Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir." "No" "; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; "no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann." (Here she set down the glass.) "I shall take a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann." (He drew it towards him.) "You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann." (He stirred the gin-and-water.) "I I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann" "; and he swallowed half of it. "And now about business," said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-book. "The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine year old to-day." "Bless him!" interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner of her apron. "And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish," said Bumble, "we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother's settlement, name, or condition." Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's reflection, "How comes he to have any name at all, then?" The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "I inwented it." "You, Mr. Bumble!" "I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S, Swubble, I named him. This was a T, Twist, I named _him_. The next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z." "Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!" said Mrs. Mann. "Well, well," said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; "perhaps I may be. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann." He finished the gin-and-water, and added, "Oliver being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once." "I'll fetch him directly," said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress. "Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver," said Mrs. Mann. Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair, and the cocked hat on the table. "Will you go along with me, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice. Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his recollection. "Will she go with me?" inquired poor Oliver. "No, she can't," replied Mr. Bumble. "But she'll come and see you sometimes." This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a | what more would the people have! It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden-gate. "Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. "(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.) My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, sure-ly!" Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's. "Lor, only think," said Mrs. Mann, running out, for the three boys had been removed by this time, "only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir." Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle. "Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," inquired Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, "to keep the parish officers a waiting at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?" "I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming," replied Mrs. Mann with great humility. Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed. "Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied in a calmer tone; "it may be as you say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and have something to say."<|quote|>Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.</|quote|>"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mr. Bumble?" "Not a drop. Nor a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a dignified, but placid manner. "I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar." Mr. Bumble coughed. "Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively. "What is it?" inquired the beadle. "Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. "It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin." "Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following with his eyes the interesting process of mixing. "Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir." "No" "; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; "no, you could not. You | Oliver Twist |
she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table. | No speaker | as it was uttered. "Bounderby!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"Oh hide me! Don't let | for she caught a word as it was uttered. "Bounderby!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"Oh hide me! Don't let me be seen for the | 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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," | 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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 | 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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. | 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." "A widder, I think?" 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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 | 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." "A widder, I think?" 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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 that result, give me credit, if you please, for being in ignorance how to speak to you as I ought." As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively addressed himself to her, so she now instinctively addressed herself to Rachael. Her manner was short and abrupt, yet faltering and timid. "He has told you what has passed between himself and my husband? You would be his first resource, I think." "I have heard the end of it, young lady," said Rachael. "Did I understand, that, being rejected by one employer, he would probably be rejected by all? I thought he said as much?" "The chances are very small, young lady next to nothing for a man who gets a bad name among them." "What shall I understand that you mean by a bad name?" "The name of being troublesome." "Then, by the prejudices of his own class, and by the prejudices of the other, he is sacrificed alike? Are the two so deeply separated in this town, that there is no place whatever for an honest workman between them?" Rachael shook her head in silence. "He fell into suspicion," said Louisa, "with his fellow-weavers, because he had made a promise not to be one of them. I think it must have been to you that he made that promise. Might I ask you why he made it?" Rachael burst into tears. "I didn't | 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." "A widder, I think?" 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!"<|quote|>she cried, in a suppressed voice, starting up from the table.</|quote|>"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 | Hard Times |
"Who s we ?" | Henry | t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, | he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" | may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a | Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband | Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." Charles made no answer. "Is | it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." Charles made no answer. "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?" "No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon." "How?" "Don t ask me." CHAPTER XXXV One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, | has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most striking." "She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. "Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. "Well, my dear, how am I to know?" A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." "Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." "No, Henry--can t you see?--I don t mean that." She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. "I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for some one, or wanted to help them. There s no possible excuse for her now. She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. Mad is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe it. I shouldn t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well--trouble you about her, I mean." Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." Charles made no answer. "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?" "No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon." "How?" "Don t ask me." CHAPTER XXXV One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village, and had a few minutes serious conversation with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know--perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to Howards End. "She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will be her books." "I cannot make it out," said Margaret for the hundredth time. "Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off." "Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty," said Dolly. Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Dolly stole glances at her father-in-law which he did not answer. In the silence the motor came round to the door. "You re not fit for it," he said anxiously. "Let me go alone. I know exactly what to do." "Oh yes, I am fit," said Margaret, uncovering her face. "Only most frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams seem to have come from some one else. Her voice isn t in them. I don t believe your driver really saw her at the station. I wish I d never mentioned it. I know that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is--" She seized Dolly s hand and kissed it. "There, Dolly will forgive me. There. Now we ll be off." Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. "Don t you want to tidy yourself?" he asked. "Have I time?" "Yes, plenty." She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: "Dolly, I m going without her." Dolly s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out to the car. "Tell her I thought it best." "Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see." "Say anything you like. All right." The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly | pale; one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its ethics from the wolf-pack. "You want to get hold of her?" he said. "That s the problem, isn t it? She has got to see a doctor." "For all I know she has seen one already." "Yes, yes; don t interrupt." He rose to his feet and thought intently. The genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few bottles of gin. "I ve got it," he said at last. "It s perfectly easy. Leave it to me. We ll send her down to Howards End." "How will you do that?" "After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet her there." "But, Henry, that s just what she won t let me do. It s part of her--whatever it is--never to see me." "Of course you won t tell her you re going. When she is there, looking at the cases, you ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. But there ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her to a specialist in no time." Margaret shook her head. "It s quite impossible." "Why?" "It doesn t seem impossible to me," said Tibby; "it is surely a very tippy plan." "It is impossible, because--" She looked at her husband sadly. "It s not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don t blame." "But Helen doesn t talk," said Tibby. "That s our whole difficulty. She won t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she s ill." "No, Henry; it s sweet of you, but I couldn t." "I see," he said; "you have scruples." "I suppose so." "And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness--" "I deny it s madness." "You said just now--" "It s madness when I say it, but not when you say it." Henry shrugged his shoulders. "Margaret! Margaret!" he groaned. "No education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to help you or not?" "Not in that way." "Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--" Charles surprised them by interrupting. "Pater, we may as well keep Howards End out of it," he said. "Why, Charles?" Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous distance, a salutation had passed between them. "The whole house is at sixes and sevens," he said crossly. "We don t want any more mess."<|quote|>"Who s we ?"</|quote|>asked his father. "My boy, pray who s we ?" "I am sure I beg your pardon," said Charles. "I appear always to be intruding." By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband s dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: "I can t have this sort of behaviour, my boy. Margaret s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her." Charles made no answer. "Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?" "No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon." "How?" "Don t ask me." CHAPTER XXXV One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in the village, and had a few minutes serious conversation with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know--perhaps not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to Howards End. "She was bound to drive," said Henry. "There will be her books." "I cannot make it | Howards End |
and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye. | No speaker | Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me | “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You | bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she | is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you | a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I | him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before. I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave. I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into | years ago and bought me the house I live in now. Of course we was broke up when he run off from home, but I see now there was a reason for it. He knew he had a big future in front of him. And ever since he made a success he was very generous with me.” He seemed reluctant to put away the picture, held it for another minute, lingeringly, before my eyes. Then he returned the wallet and pulled from his pocket a ragged old copy of a book called Hopalong Cassidy. “Look here, this is a book he had when he was a boy. It just shows you.” He opened it at the back cover and turned it around for me to see. On the last flyleaf was printed the word schedule, and the date September 12, 1906. And underneath: Rise from bed 6:00 a.m. Dumbell exercise and wall-scaling 6:15-6:30 ” Study electricity, etc. 7:15-8:15 ” Work 8:30-4:30 p.m. Baseball and sports 4:30-5:00 ” Practise elocution, poise and how to attain it 5:00-6:00 ” Study needed inventions 7:00-9:00 ” General Resolves * No wasting time at Shafters or [a name, indecipherable] * No more smokeing or chewing. * Bath every other day * Read one improving book or magazine per week * Save $5.00 [crossed out] $3.00 per week * Be better to parents “I came across this book by accident,” said the old man. “It just shows you, don’t it?” “It just shows you.” “Jimmy was bound to get ahead. He always had some resolves like this or something. Do you notice what he’s got about improving his mind? He was always great for that. He told me I et like a hog once, and I beat him for it.” He was reluctant to close the book, reading each item aloud and then looking eagerly at me. I think he rather expected me to copy down the list for my own use. A little before three the Lutheran minister arrived from Flushing, and I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before. I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave. I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that afternoon?” He stared at me without a word, and I knew I had guessed right about those missing hours. I started to turn away, but he took a step after me and grabbed my arm. “I told him the truth,” he said. “He came to the door while we were getting ready to leave, and when I sent down word that we weren’t in he tried to force his way upstairs. He was crazy enough to kill me if I hadn’t told him who owned the car. His hand was on a revolver in his pocket every minute he was in the house—” He broke off defiantly. “What if I did tell him? That fellow had it coming to him. He threw dust into your eyes just like he did in Daisy’s, but he was a tough one. He ran over Myrtle like you’d run over a dog and never even stopped his car.” There was nothing I could say, except the one unutterable fact that it wasn’t true. “And if you think I didn’t have my share of suffering—look here, when I went to give up that flat and saw that damn box of dog biscuits sitting there on the sideboard, I sat down and cried like a baby. By God it was awful—” I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy—they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made … I shook hands with him; it seemed silly not to, for I felt suddenly as though I were talking to a child. Then he went into the jewellery store to buy a pearl necklace—or perhaps only a pair of cuff buttons—rid of my provincial squeamishness forever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gatsby’s house was still empty when I left—the grass on his lawn had grown as long as mine. One of the taxi drivers in the village never took a fare past the entrance gate without stopping for a minute and pointing inside; perhaps it was he who drove Daisy and Gatsby over to East Egg the night of the accident, and perhaps he had made a story about it all his own. I didn’t want to hear it and I avoided him when I got off the train. I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn’t investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn’t know that the party was over. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to | I began to look involuntarily out the windows for other cars. So did Gatsby’s father. And as the time passed and the servants came in and stood waiting in the hall, his eyes began to blink anxiously, and he spoke of the rain in a worried, uncertain way. The minister glanced several times at his watch, so I took him aside and asked him to wait for half an hour. But it wasn’t any use. Nobody came. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ About five o’clock our procession of three cars reached the cemetery and stopped in a thick drizzle beside the gate—first a motor hearse, horribly black and wet, then Mr. Gatz and the minister and me in the limousine, and a little later four or five servants and the postman from West Egg, in Gatsby’s station wagon, all wet to the skin. As we started through the gate into the cemetery I heard a car stop and then the sound of someone splashing after us over the soggy ground. I looked around. It was the man with owl-eyed glasses whom I had found marvelling over Gatsby’s books in the library one night three months before. I’d never seen him since then. I don’t know how he knew about the funeral, or even his name. The rain poured down his thick glasses, and he took them off and wiped them to see the protecting canvas unrolled from Gatsby’s grave. I tried to think about Gatsby then for a moment, but he was already too far away, and I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower. Dimly I heard someone murmur “Blessed are the dead that the rain falls on,” and then the owl-eyed man said “Amen to that,” in a brave voice. We straggled down quickly through the rain to the cars. Owl-eyes spoke to me by the gate. “I couldn’t get to the house,” he remarked. “Neither could anybody else.” “Go on!” He started. “Why, my God! they used to go there by the hundreds.” He took off his glasses and wiped them again, outside and in. “The poor son-of-a-bitch,” he said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o’clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gaieties, to bid them a hasty goodbye. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-That’s and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: “Are you going to the Ordways’? the Herseys’? the Schultzes’?”<|quote|>and the long green tickets clasped tight in our gloved hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate. When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again. That’s my Middle West—not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family’s name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all—Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life. Even when the East excited me most, even when I was most keenly aware of its superiority to the bored, sprawling, swollen towns beyond the Ohio, with their interminable inquisitions which spared only the children and the very old—even then it had always for me a quality of distortion. West Egg, especially, still figures in my more fantastic dreams. I see it as a night scene by El Greco: a hundred houses, at once conventional and grotesque, crouching under a sullen, overhanging sky and a lustreless moon. In the foreground four solemn men in dress suits are walking along the sidewalk with a stretcher on which lies a drunken woman in a white evening dress. Her hand, which dangles over the side, sparkles cold with jewels. Gravely the men turn in at a house—the wrong house. But no one knows the woman’s name, and no one cares. After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line I decided to come back home. There was one thing to be done before I left, an awkward, unpleasant thing that perhaps had better have been let alone. But I wanted to leave things in order and not just trust that obliging and indifferent sea to sweep my refuse away. I saw Jordan Baker and talked over and around what had happened to us together, and what had happened afterward to me, and she lay perfectly still, listening, in a big chair. She was dressed to play golf, and I remember thinking she looked like a good illustration, her chin raised a little jauntily, her hair the colour of an autumn leaf, her face the same brown tint as the fingerless glove on her knee. When I had finished she told me without comment that she was engaged to another man. I doubted that, though there were several she could have married at a nod of her head, but I pretended to be surprised. For just a minute I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake, then I thought it all over again quickly and got up to say goodbye.</|quote|>“Nevertheless you did throw me over,” said Jordan suddenly. “You threw me over on the telephone. I don’t give a damn about you now, but it was a new experience for me, and I felt a little dizzy for a while.” We shook hands. “Oh, and do you remember” —she added— “a conversation we had once about driving a car?” “Why—not exactly.” “You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.” “I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honour.” She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ One afternoon late in October I saw Tom Buchanan. He was walking ahead of me along Fifth Avenue in his alert, aggressive way, his hands out a little from his body as if to fight off interference, his head moving sharply here and there, adapting itself to his restless eyes. Just as I slowed up to avoid overtaking him he stopped and began frowning into the windows of a jewellery store. Suddenly he saw me and walked back, holding out his hand. “What’s the matter, Nick? Do you object to shaking hands with me?” “Yes. You know what I think of you.” “You’re crazy, Nick,” he said quickly. “Crazy as hell. I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” “Tom,” I inquired, “what did you say to Wilson that | The Great Gatsby |
"Certainly." | Tony Last | "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep | described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to | Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. | for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two | Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case | in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said | over and over again the incidents of the last three months; then he too fell asleep. * * * * * He was awakened by Winnie. "Mother's still asleep," she said. Tony looked at his watch. "So I should think," he said. It was a quarter-past seven. "Go back to bed." "No, I'm dressed. Let's go out." She went to the window and pulled back the curtains, filling the room with glacial, morning light. "It's hardly raining at all," she said. "What do you want to do?" "I want to go on the pier." "It won't be open yet." "Well, I want to go down to the sea. Come on." Tony knew that he would not get to sleep again that morning. "All right. You go and wait while I dress." "I'll wait here. Mother snores so." Twenty minutes later they went downstairs into the hall where aproned waiters were piling up the furniture and brushing the carpets. A keen wind met them as they emerged from the swing door. The asphalt promenade was wet with spray and rain. Two or three female figures were scudding along, bowed to the wind, prayer-books clutched in their gloved hands. Four or five rugged old men were hobbling down to bathe, hissing like ostlers. "Oh, come on," said Winnie. They went down to the beach and stumbled painfully across the shingle to the margin of the sea. Winnie threw some stones. The bathers were in the water now; some of them had dogs who swam snorting beside them. "Why don't you bathe?" asked Winnie. "Far too cold." "But _they're_ bathing. I want to." "You must ask your mother." "I believe you're afraid. Can you swim?" "Yes." "Well, why don't you? Bet you can't." "All right. I can't." "Then why did you say you could. Fibber." They walked along the shingle. Winnie slithered about astride a backwater. "Now my knickers are wet," she said. "Better come back and change." "It feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get it clear in your mind." "_...My marriage was an ideally happy one_," she read "_until shortly before Christmas last year when I began to suspect that my husband's attitude had changed towards me. He always remained in the country when my studies took me to London. I realized that he no longer cared for me as he used to. He began to drink heavily and on one occasion made a disturbance at our flat in London, constantly ringing up when drunk and sending a drunken friend round to knock on the door._ "Is that necessary?" "Not strictly, but it is advisable to put it in. A great deal depends on psychological impression. Judges in their more lucid moments sometimes wonder why perfectly respectable, happily married men go off for week-ends to the seaside with women they do not know. It is always helpful to offer evidence of general degeneracy." "I see," said Brenda. "_From then onwards I had him watched by private agents and as a result of what they told me, I left my husband's house on April 5th._ "Yes, that all seems quite clear." [III] Lady St Cloud preserved an atavistic faith in the authority and preternatural good judgment of the Head of the Family; accordingly, her first act, on learning from Marjorie of Brenda's wayward behaviour, was to cable for Reggie's return from Tunisia where he was occupied in desecrating some tombs. His departure, like all his movements, was leisurely. He did not take the first available boat or the second, but eventually he arrived in London on the Monday after Tony's visit to Brighton. He held a family conclave in his library, consisting of his mother, Brenda, Marjorie, Allan and the solicitor; later he discussed the question fully with each of them severally; he took Beaver out to luncheon; he dined with Jock; he even called on Tony's Aunt Frances. Finally, on Thursday evening he arranged to meet Tony for dinner at Brown's. He was eight years older than Brenda; very occasionally a fugitive, indefinable likeness was detectable between him and Marjorie, but both in character and appearance he was as different from Brenda as it was possible to imagine. He was prematurely, unnaturally stout, and he carried his burden of flesh as though he were not yet used to it; as though it had been buckled on to him that morning for the first time and he were still experimenting for its better adjustment; there was an instability in his gait and in his eyes a furtive look as though he were at any moment liable to ambush and realized that he was unfairly handicapped for flight. This impression, however, was due solely to his physical appearance; it was the deep bed of fat in which his eyes lay that gave them this look of suspicion; the caution of his movements resulted from the exertion of keeping his balance and not from any embarrassment at his own clumsiness, for it had never occurred to him that he looked at all unusual. Rather more than half Reggie St Cloud's time and income was spent abroad in modest archaeological expeditions. His house in London was full of their fruit--fragmentary amphoras, corroded bronze axe heads, little splinters of bone and charred stick, a Graeco-Roman head in marble, its features obliterated | feels horrible. Let's go and have breakfast." The hotel did not, as a rule, cater for guests who breakfasted downstairs at eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It took a long time before anything could be got ready. There were no ices, much to Winnie's annoyance. She ate grapefruit and kippers and scrambled eggs on toast, complaining fitfully about her wet clothing. After breakfast Tony sent her upstairs to change and himself smoked a pipe in the lounge and glanced over the Sunday papers. Here at nine o'clock he was interrupted by the arrival of Blenkinsop. "We missed you last night," he said. "We went to a party." "You shouldn't have done that--not strictly, but I daresay no harm will come of it. Have you had your breakfast?" "Yes, in the dining-room with Winnie." "But, Mr Last, what are you thinking of? You've got to get evidence from the hotel servants." "Well, I didn't like to wake Milly." "She's paid for it, isn't she? Come, come, Mr Last, this won't do at all. You'll never get your divorce if you don't give your mind to it more." "All right," said Tony. "I'll have breakfast again." "In bed, mind." "In bed." And he went wearily upstairs to his rooms. Winnie had drawn the curtains but her mother was still asleep. "She woke up once and then turned over. Do get her to come out. I want to go on the pier." "Milly," said Tony firmly. "Milly." "Oh," she said. "What time is it?" "We've got to have breakfast." "Don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep a little." "You've had breakfast," said Winnie. "Come on," said Tony. "Plenty of time to sleep afterwards. This is what we came for." Milly sat up in bed. "O.K.," she said. "Winnie, darling, give mother her jacket off the chair." She was a conscientious girl, ready to go through with her job, however unattractive it might seem. "But it's early." Tony went into his room and took off his shoes, collar and tie, coat and waistcoat, and put on a dressing-gown. "You are greedy," said Winnie, "eating two breakfasts." "When you're a little older you'll understand these things. It's the Law. Now I want you to stay in the sitting-room for a quarter of an hour very quietly. Promise? And afterwards you can do exactly what you like." "Can I bathe?" "Yes, certainly, if you're quiet now." Tony got into bed beside Milly and pulled the dressing-gown tight round his throat. "Does that look all right?" "Love's young dream," said Milly. "All right, then. I'll ring the bell." When the tray had been brought, Tony got out of bed and put on his things. "So much for my infidelity," he said. "It is curious to reflect that this will be described in the papers as "intimacy"." "Can I bathe now?"<|quote|>"Certainly."</|quote|>Milly turned over to sleep again. Tony took Winnie to the beach. The wind had got up and a heavy sea was pounding on the shingle. "This little girl would like to bathe," said Tony. "No bathing for children to-day," said the beach attendant. "The very idea," said various onlookers. "Does he want to drown the child?" "He's no business to be trusted with children." "_Unnatural beast._" "But I _want_ to bathe," said Winnie. "You said I could bathe if you had two breakfasts." The people who had clustered round to witness Tony's discomfort, looked at one another askance. "Two breakfasts? Wanting to let the child bathe? The man's balmy." "Never mind," said Tony. "We'll go on the pier." Several of the crowd followed them round the slots, curious to see what new enormity this mad father might attempt. "There's a man who's eaten two breakfasts and tries to drown his little girl," they informed other spectators, sceptically observing his attempts to amuse Winnie with skee-ball. Tony's conduct confirmed the view of human nature derived from the weekly newspapers which they had all been reading that morning. * * * * * "Well," said Brenda's solicitor. "We have our case now, all quite regular and complete. I don't think it can come on until next term--there's a great rush at the moment, but there's no harm in you having your own evidence ready. I've got it typed out for you. You'd better keep it by you and get | A Handful Of Dust |
Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies. | No speaker | go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, | seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went | "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew | knew one another very little, and felt rather awkward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and | said the old lady sharply. "I say it'll prove to be Miss Quested's wish, in fact I know it is," persisted the schoolmaster. He was annoyed chiefly with himself. He had begun by missing a train a sin he was never guilty of and now that he did arrive it was to upset Aziz' arrangements for the second time. He wanted someone to share the blame, and frowned at Mrs. Moore rather magisterially. "Aziz is a charming fellow," he announced. "I know," she answered, with a yawn. "He has taken endless trouble to make a success of our picnic." They knew one another very little, and felt rather awkward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; | gone for a spin." "Chandrapore? The man's made a mistake," Fielding exclaimed. "Oh no, why?" He was disappointed, but made light of it; no doubt the two young ladies were great friends. He would prefer to give breakfast to all four; still, guests must do as they wish, or they become prisoners. He went away cheerfully to inspect the porridge and the ice. "What's happened?" asked Fielding, who felt at once that something had gone queer. All the way out Miss Derek had chattered about the picnic, called it an unexpected treat, and said that she preferred Indians who didn't invite her to their entertainments to those who did it. Mrs. Moore sat swinging her foot, and appeared sulky and stupid. She said: "Miss Derek is most unsatisfactory and restless, always in a hurry, always wanting something new; she will do anything in the world except go back to the Indian lady who pays her." Fielding, who didn't dislike Miss Derek, replied: "She wasn't in a hurry when I left her. There was no question of returning to Chandrapore. It looks to me as if Miss Quested's in the hurry." "Adela? she's never been in a hurry in her life," said the old lady sharply. "I say it'll prove to be Miss Quested's wish, in fact I know it is," persisted the schoolmaster. He was annoyed chiefly with himself. He had begun by missing a train a sin he was never guilty of and now that he did arrive it was to upset Aziz' arrangements for the second time. He wanted someone to share the blame, and frowned at Mrs. Moore rather magisterially. "Aziz is a charming fellow," he announced. "I know," she answered, with a yawn. "He has taken endless trouble to make a success of our picnic." They knew one another very little, and felt rather awkward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz | hill towards Mrs. Moore, and here he was more successful: the colour and confusion of his little camp soon appeared, and in the midst of it he saw an Englishman's topi, and beneath it oh joy! smiled not Mr. Heaslop, but Fielding. "Fielding! Oh, I have so wanted you!" he cried, dropping the "Mr." for the first time. And his friend ran to meet him, all so pleasant and jolly, no dignity, shouting explanations and apologies about the train. Fielding had come in the newly arrived car Miss Derek's car that other lady was Miss Derek. Chatter, chatter, all the servants leaving their cooking to listen. Excellent Miss Derek! She had met Fielding by chance at the post office, said, "Why haven't you gone to the Marabar?" heard how he missed the train, offered to run him there and then. Another nice English lady. Where was she? Left with car and chauffeur while Fielding found camp. Car couldn't get up no, of course not hundreds of people must go down to escort Miss Derek and show her the way. The elephant in person. . . . "Aziz, can I have a drink?" "Certainly not." He flew to get one. "Mr. Fielding!" called Mrs. Moore, from her patch of shade; they had not spoken yet, because his arrival had coincided with the torrent from the hill. "Good morning again!" he cried, relieved to find all well. "Mr. Fielding, have you seen Miss Quested?" "But I've only just arrived. Where is she?" "I do not know." "Aziz! Where have you put Miss Quested to?" Aziz, who was returning with a drink in his hand, had to think for a moment. His heart was full of new happiness. The picnic, after a nasty shock or two, had developed into something beyond his dreams, for Fielding had not only come, but brought an uninvited guest. "Oh, she's all right," he said; "she went down to see Miss Derek. Well, here's luck! Chin-chin!" "Here's luck, but chin-chin I do refuse," laughed Fielding, who detested the phrase. "Here's to India!" "Here's luck, and here's to England!" Miss Derek's chauffeur stopped the cavalcade which was starting to escort his mistress up, and informed it that she had gone back with the other young lady to Chandrapore; she had sent him to say so. She was driving herself. "Oh yes, that's quite likely," said Aziz. "I knew they'd gone for a spin." "Chandrapore? The man's made a mistake," Fielding exclaimed. "Oh no, why?" He was disappointed, but made light of it; no doubt the two young ladies were great friends. He would prefer to give breakfast to all four; still, guests must do as they wish, or they become prisoners. He went away cheerfully to inspect the porridge and the ice. "What's happened?" asked Fielding, who felt at once that something had gone queer. All the way out Miss Derek had chattered about the picnic, called it an unexpected treat, and said that she preferred Indians who didn't invite her to their entertainments to those who did it. Mrs. Moore sat swinging her foot, and appeared sulky and stupid. She said: "Miss Derek is most unsatisfactory and restless, always in a hurry, always wanting something new; she will do anything in the world except go back to the Indian lady who pays her." Fielding, who didn't dislike Miss Derek, replied: "She wasn't in a hurry when I left her. There was no question of returning to Chandrapore. It looks to me as if Miss Quested's in the hurry." "Adela? she's never been in a hurry in her life," said the old lady sharply. "I say it'll prove to be Miss Quested's wish, in fact I know it is," persisted the schoolmaster. He was annoyed chiefly with himself. He had begun by missing a train a sin he was never guilty of and now that he did arrive it was to upset Aziz' arrangements for the second time. He wanted someone to share the blame, and frowned at Mrs. Moore rather magisterially. "Aziz is a charming fellow," he announced. "I know," she answered, with a yawn. "He has taken endless trouble to make a success of our picnic." They knew one another very little, and felt rather awkward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, the shallow graves, the suave sky, the snake that looked like a tree. He had given his guests as good a time as he could, and if they came late or left early that was not his affair. Mrs. Moore slept, swaying against the rods of the howdah, Mohammed Latif embraced her with efficiency and respect, and by his own side sat Fielding, whom he began to think of as "Cyril." "Aziz, have you figured out what this picnic will cost you?" "Sh! my dear chap, don't mention that part. Hundreds and hundreds of rupees. The completed account will be too awful; my friends' servants have robbed me right and left, and as for an elephant, she apparently eats gold. I can trust you not to repeat this. And M.L. please employ initials, he listens is far the worst of all." "I told you he's no good." "He is plenty of good for himself; his dishonesty will ruin me." "Aziz, how monstrous!" "I am delighted with him really, he has made my guests comfortable; besides, it is my duty to employ him, he is my cousin. If money goes, money comes. If money stays, death comes. Did you ever hear that useful Urdu proverb? Probably not, for I have just invented it." "My proverbs are: A penny saved is a penny earned; A stitch in time saves nine; Look before you leap; and the British Empire rests on them. You will never kick us out, you know, until you cease employing M.L.'s and such." "Oh, kick you out? Why should I trouble over that dirty job? Leave it to the politicians. . . . No, when I was a student I got excited over your damned countrymen, certainly; but if they'll let me get on with my profession and not be too rude to me officially, I really don't ask for more." "But you do; you take them to a picnic." "This picnic is nothing to do with English or Indian; it is an expedition of friends." So the cavalcade ended, partly pleasant, partly not; the | replied: "She wasn't in a hurry when I left her. There was no question of returning to Chandrapore. It looks to me as if Miss Quested's in the hurry." "Adela? she's never been in a hurry in her life," said the old lady sharply. "I say it'll prove to be Miss Quested's wish, in fact I know it is," persisted the schoolmaster. He was annoyed chiefly with himself. He had begun by missing a train a sin he was never guilty of and now that he did arrive it was to upset Aziz' arrangements for the second time. He wanted someone to share the blame, and frowned at Mrs. Moore rather magisterially. "Aziz is a charming fellow," he announced. "I know," she answered, with a yawn. "He has taken endless trouble to make a success of our picnic." They knew one another very little, and felt rather awkward at being drawn together by an Indian. The racial problem can take subtle forms. In their case it had induced a sort of jealousy, a mutual suspicion. He tried to goad her enthusiasm; she scarcely spoke. Aziz fetched them to breakfast. "It is quite natural about Miss Quested," he remarked, for he had been working the incident a little in his mind, to get rid of its roughnesses. "We were having an interesting talk with our guide, then the car was seen, so she decided to go down to her friend."<|quote|>Incurably inaccurate, he already thought that this was what had occurred. He was inaccurate because he was sensitive. He did not like to remember Miss Quested's remark about polygamy, because it was unworthy of a guest, so he put it from his mind, and with it the knowledge that he had bolted into a cave to get away from her. He was inaccurate because he desired to honour her, and facts being entangled he had to arrange them in her vicinity, as one tidies the ground after extracting a weed. Before breakfast was over, he had told a good many lies.</|quote|>"She ran to her friend, I to mine," he went on, smiling. "And now I am with my friends and they are with me and each other, which is happiness." Loving them both, he expected them to love each other. They didn't want to. Fielding thought with hostility, "I knew these women would make trouble," and Mrs. Moore thought, "This man, having missed the train, tries to blame us" "; but her thoughts were feeble; since her faintness in the cave she was sunk in apathy and cynicism. The wonderful India of her opening weeks, with its cool nights and acceptable hints of infinity, had vanished. Fielding ran up to see one cave. He wasn't impressed. Then they got on the elephant and the picnic began to unwind out of the corridor and escaped under the precipice towards the railway station, pursued by stabs of hot air. They came to the place where he had quitted the car. A disagreeable thought now struck him, and he said: "Aziz, exactly where and how did you leave Miss Quested?" "Up there." He indicated the Kawa Dol cheerfully. "But how" A gully, or rather a crease, showed among the rocks at this place; it was scurfy with cactuses. "I suppose the guide helped her." "Oh, rather, most helpful." "Is there a path off the top?" "Millions of paths, my dear fellow." Fielding could see nothing but the crease. Everywhere else the glaring granite plunged into the earth. "But you saw them get down safe?" "Yes, yes, she and Miss Derek, and go off in the car." "Then the guide came back to you?" "Exactly. Got a cigarette?" "I hope she wasn't ill," pursued the Englishman. The crease continued as a nullah across the plain, the water draining off this way towards the Ganges. "She would have wanted me, if she was ill, to attend her." "Yes, that sounds sense." "I see you're worrying, let's talk of other things," he said kindly. "Miss Quested was always to do what she wished, it was our arrangement. I see you are worrying on my account, but really I don't mind, I never notice trifles." "I do worry on your account. I consider they have been impolite!" said Fielding, lowering his voice. "She had no right to dash away from your party, and Miss Derek had no right to abet her." So touchy as a rule, Aziz was unassailable. The wings that uplifted him did not falter, because he was a Mogul emperor who had done his duty. Perched on his elephant, he watched the Marabar Hills recede, and saw again, as provinces of his kingdom, the grim untidy plain, the frantic and feeble movements of the buckets, the white shrines, | A Passage To India |
"There s breakfast upstairs," | Kemp | sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily | help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was | of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had | that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping | to "Colonel Adye, Port Burdock." The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and rapped eagerly. CHAPTER XIX. CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES "What s the matter?" asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him. "Nothing," was the answer. "But, confound it! The smash?" "Fit of temper," said the Invisible Man. "Forgot this arm; and it s sore." "You re rather liable to that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held serviette. "It s simple enough and credible enough," said Griffin, putting the serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand. "No doubt, to you, but" Kemp laughed. "Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff first at Chesilstowe." "Chesilstowe?" "I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took up physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me." "Ah!" "Optical density! The whole subject is a network | the name of Marvel. "He has made me keep with him twenty-four hours," Marvel testified. Certain minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the connexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter. Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured. "He is invisible!" he said. "And it reads like rage growing to mania! The things he may do! The things he may do! And he s upstairs free as the air. What on earth ought I to do?" "For instance, would it be a breach of faith if ? No." He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to "Colonel Adye, Port Burdock." The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and rapped eagerly. CHAPTER XIX. CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES "What s the matter?" asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him. "Nothing," was the answer. "But, confound it! The smash?" "Fit of temper," said the Invisible Man. "Forgot this arm; and it s sore." "You re rather liable to that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held serviette. "It s simple enough and credible enough," said Griffin, putting the serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand. "No doubt, to you, but" Kemp laughed. "Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff first at Chesilstowe." "Chesilstowe?" "I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took up physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me." "Ah!" "Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles a network with solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but two-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said," I will devote my life to this. This is worth while. "You know what fools we are at two-and-twenty?" "Fools then or fools now," said Kemp. "As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!" "But I went to work like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought about the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes suddenly blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and refraction a formula, a geometrical expression involving four dimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, do not know anything of what some general expression may mean to the student of molecular physics. In the books the books that tramp has hidden there are marvels, miracles! But this was not a method, it was an idea, that might lead to a method by which it would be possible, without changing any other property of matter except, in some instances colours to lower the refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air so far as all practical purposes are concerned." "Phew!" said Kemp. "That s | s paper lay carelessly opened and thrown aside. He caught it up, turned it over, and read the account of a "Strange Story from Iping" that the mariner at Port Stowe had spelt over so painfully to Mr. Marvel. Kemp read it swiftly. "Wrapped up!" said Kemp. "Disguised! Hiding it! No one seems to have been aware of his misfortune. What the devil _is_ his game?" He dropped the paper, and his eye went seeking. "Ah!" he said, and caught up the _St. James Gazette_, lying folded up as it arrived. "Now we shall get at the truth," said Dr. Kemp. He rent the paper open; a couple of columns confronted him. "An Entire Village in Sussex goes Mad" was the heading. "Good Heavens!" said Kemp, reading eagerly an incredulous account of the events in Iping, of the previous afternoon, that have already been described. Over the leaf the report in the morning paper had been reprinted. He re-read it. "Ran through the streets striking right and left. Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not to print _cum grano_!" He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. "Probably a fabrication!" He caught up the paper again, and re-read the whole business. "But when does the Tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?" He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. "He s not only invisible," he said, "but he s mad! Homicidal!" When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamp-light and cigar smoke of the dining-room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp the incredible. He was altogether too excited to sleep. His servants, descending sleepily, discovered him, and were inclined to think that over-study had worked this ill on him. He gave them extraordinary but quite explicit instructions to lay breakfast for two in the belvedere study and then to confine themselves to the basement and ground-floor. Then he continued to pace the dining-room until the morning s paper came. That had much to say and little to tell, beyond the confirmation of the evening before, and a very badly written account of another remarkable tale from Port Burdock. This gave Kemp the essence of the happenings at the "Jolly Cricketers," and the name of Marvel. "He has made me keep with him twenty-four hours," Marvel testified. Certain minor facts were added to the Iping story, notably the cutting of the village telegraph-wire. But there was nothing to throw light on the connexion between the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter. Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured. "He is invisible!" he said. "And it reads like rage growing to mania! The things he may do! The things he may do! And he s upstairs free as the air. What on earth ought I to do?" "For instance, would it be a breach of faith if ? No." He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to "Colonel Adye, Port Burdock." The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and rapped eagerly. CHAPTER XIX. CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES "What s the matter?" asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him. "Nothing," was the answer. "But, confound it! The smash?" "Fit of temper," said the Invisible Man. "Forgot this arm; and it s sore." "You re rather liable to that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held serviette. "It s simple enough and credible enough," said Griffin, putting the serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand. "No doubt, to you, but" Kemp laughed. "Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff first at Chesilstowe." "Chesilstowe?" "I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took up physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me." "Ah!" "Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles a network with solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but two-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said," I will devote my life to this. This is worth while. "You know what fools we are at two-and-twenty?" "Fools then or fools now," said Kemp. "As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!" "But I went to work like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought about the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes suddenly blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and refraction a formula, a geometrical expression involving four dimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, do not know anything of what some general expression may mean to the student of molecular physics. In the books the books that tramp has hidden there are marvels, miracles! But this was not a method, it was an idea, that might lead to a method by which it would be possible, without changing any other property of matter except, in some instances colours to lower the refractive index of a substance, solid or liquid, to that of air so far as all practical purposes are concerned." "Phew!" said Kemp. "That s odd! But still I don t see quite ... I can understand that thereby you could spoil a valuable stone, but personal invisibility is a far cry." "Precisely," said Griffin. "But consider, visibility depends on the action of the visible bodies on light. Either a body absorbs light, or it reflects or refracts it, or does all these things. If it neither reflects nor refracts nor absorbs light, it cannot of itself be visible. You see an opaque red box, for instance, because the colour absorbs some of the light and reflects the rest, all the red part of the light, to you. If it did not absorb any particular part of the light, but reflected it all, then it would be a shining white box. Silver! A diamond box would neither absorb much of the light nor reflect much from the general surface, but just here and there where the surfaces were favourable the light would be reflected and refracted, so that you would get a brilliant appearance of flashing reflections and translucencies a sort of skeleton of light. A glass box would not be so brilliant, nor so clearly visible, as a diamond box, because there would be less refraction and reflection. See that? From certain points of view you would see quite clearly through it. Some kinds of glass would be more visible than others, a box of flint glass would be brighter than a box of ordinary window glass. A box of very thin common glass would be hard to see in a bad light, because it would absorb hardly any light and refract and reflect very little. And if you put a sheet of common white glass in water, still more if you put it in some denser liquid than water, it would vanish almost altogether, because light passing from water to glass is only slightly refracted or reflected or indeed affected in any way. It is almost as invisible as a jet of coal gas or hydrogen is in air. And for precisely the same reason!" "Yes," said Kemp, "that is pretty plain sailing." "And here is another fact you will know to be true. If a sheet of glass is smashed, Kemp, and beaten into a powder, it becomes much more visible while it is in the air; it becomes at last an opaque white powder. This is because the powdering multiplies the | the Invisible Man and the Tramp; for Mr. Marvel had supplied no information about the three books, or the money with which he was lined. The incredulous tone had vanished and a shoal of reporters and inquirers were already at work elaborating the matter. Kemp read every scrap of the report and sent his housemaid out to get every one of the morning papers she could. These also he devoured. "He is invisible!" he said. "And it reads like rage growing to mania! The things he may do! The things he may do! And he s upstairs free as the air. What on earth ought I to do?" "For instance, would it be a breach of faith if ? No." He went to a little untidy desk in the corner, and began a note. He tore this up half written, and wrote another. He read it over and considered it. Then he took an envelope and addressed it to "Colonel Adye, Port Burdock." The Invisible Man awoke even as Kemp was doing this. He awoke in an evil temper, and Kemp, alert for every sound, heard his pattering feet rush suddenly across the bedroom overhead. Then a chair was flung over and the wash-hand stand tumbler smashed. Kemp hurried upstairs and rapped eagerly. CHAPTER XIX. CERTAIN FIRST PRINCIPLES "What s the matter?" asked Kemp, when the Invisible Man admitted him. "Nothing," was the answer. "But, confound it! The smash?" "Fit of temper," said the Invisible Man. "Forgot this arm; and it s sore." "You re rather liable to that sort of thing." "I am." Kemp walked across the room and picked up the fragments of broken glass. "All the facts are out about you," said Kemp, standing up with the glass in his hand; "all that happened in Iping, and down the hill. The world has become aware of its invisible citizen. But no one knows you are here." The Invisible Man swore. "The secret s out. I gather it was a secret. I don t know what your plans are, but of course I m anxious to help you." The Invisible Man sat down on the bed.<|quote|>"There s breakfast upstairs,"</|quote|>said Kemp, speaking as easily as possible, and he was delighted to find his strange guest rose willingly. Kemp led the way up the narrow staircase to the belvedere. "Before we can do anything else," said Kemp, "I must understand a little more about this invisibility of yours." He had sat down, after one nervous glance out of the window, with the air of a man who has talking to do. His doubts of the sanity of the entire business flashed and vanished again as he looked across to where Griffin sat at the breakfast-table a headless, handless dressing-gown, wiping unseen lips on a miraculously held serviette. "It s simple enough and credible enough," said Griffin, putting the serviette aside and leaning the invisible head on an invisible hand. "No doubt, to you, but" Kemp laughed. "Well, yes; to me it seemed wonderful at first, no doubt. But now, great God! ... But we will do great things yet! I came on the stuff first at Chesilstowe." "Chesilstowe?" "I went there after I left London. You know I dropped medicine and took up physics? No; well, I did. _Light_ fascinated me." "Ah!" "Optical density! The whole subject is a network of riddles a network with solutions glimmering elusively through. And being but two-and-twenty and full of enthusiasm, I said," I will devote my life to this. This is worth while. "You know what fools we are at two-and-twenty?" "Fools then or fools now," said Kemp. "As though knowing could be any satisfaction to a man!" "But I went to work like a slave. And I had hardly worked and thought about the matter six months before light came through one of the meshes suddenly blindingly! I found a general principle of pigments and refraction a formula, a geometrical expression involving four dimensions. Fools, common men, even common mathematicians, | The Invisible Man |
"But, man, surely it's better at home." | Paul | getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and | longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into | peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the | good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening | Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in | "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets up and walks off. He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already | line, on the body of the little recruit with the wound that is so much too big for his hip; it falls on Kemmerich's grave; it falls in our hearts. An explosion sounds somewhere. We wince, our eyes become tense, our hands are ready to vault over the side of the lorry into the ditch by the road. It goes no farther--only the monotonous cry: "Mind--wire," --our knees bend--we are again half asleep. CHAPTER V Killing each separate louse is a tedious business when a man has hundreds. The little beasts are hard and the everlasting cracking with one's fingernails very soon becomes wearisome. So Tjaden has rigged up the lid of a boot-polish tin with a piece of wire over the lighted stump of a candle. The lice are simply thrown into this little pan. Crack! and they're done for. We sit around with our shirts on our knees, our bodies naked to the warm air and our hands at work. Haie has a particularly fine brand of louse: they have a red cross on their heads. He suggests that he brought them back with him from the hospital at Thourhout, where they attended personally on a surgeon-general. He says he means to use the fat that slowly accumulates in the tin-lid for polishing his boots, and roars with laughter for half an hour at his own joke. But he hasn't much success to-day; we are too preoccupied with another affair. The rumour has materialized. Himmelstoss has come. He appeared yesterday; we've already heard the well-known voice. He seems to have overdone it with a couple of young recruits on the ploughed field at home, and unknown to him the son of the local magistrate was watching. That cooked his goose. He will meet some surprises here. Tjaden has been meditating for hours what to say to him. Haie gazes thoughtfully at his great paws and winks at me. The thrashing was the high water mark of his life. He tells me he often dreams of it. Kropp and Müller are amusing themselves. From somewhere or other, probably the pioneer-cook-house, Kropp has bagged for himself a mess-tin full of beans. Müller squints hungrily into it but checks himself and says: "Albert, what would you do if it were suddenly peace-time again?" "There won't be any civil life," says Albert bluntly. "Well, but if--" persists Müller, "what would you do?" "Clear out of this!" growls Kropp. "Of course. And then what?" "Get drunk," says Albert. "Don't talk rot, I mean seriously----" "So do I," says Kropp, "what else should a man do?" Kat becomes interested. He levies tribute on Kropp's tin of beans, swallows some, then considers for a while and says: "You might get drunk first, of course, but then you'd take the next train for home and mother. Peace-time, man, Albert----" He fumbles in his oil-cloth pocket-book for a photograph and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets up and walks off. He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already taken away two of his horses. Every day he reads the papers that come, to see whether it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. They haven't brought the hay in yet. At this moment Himmelstoss appears. He comes straight up to our group. Tjaden's face turns red. He stretches his length on the grass and shuts his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing himself to one instead of to all of us hopes to get some response. Kropp is nearest, so he favours him. "Well, you here too?" But Albert's no friend of his. "A bit longer than you, I fancy," he retorts. The red moustache twitches: "You don't recognize me any more, what?" Tjaden now opens his eyes. "I do though." Himmelstoss turns to him: "Tjaden, isn't it?" Tjaden lifts his head. "And do you know what you are?" Himmelstoss is disconcerted. "Since when have we become so familiar? I don't remember that we ever slept in the gutter together?" He has no idea what to make of the situation. He didn't expect this open hostility. But he is on his guard: someone has already dinned some rot into him about getting a shot in the back. The question about the gutter makes Tjaden so mad that he becomes almost witty: "No, you slept there by yourself." Himmelstoss begins to boil. But Tjaden gets in ahead of him. He must bring off his insult: "Wouldn't you like to know what you are? A dirty hound, that's what you are. I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time." The satisfaction of months shines in his dull pig's eyes as he spits out: Dirty hound! Himmelstoss lets fly too, now. "What's that, you muck-rake, you dirty peat-stealer? Stand up there, bring your heels together when your superior officer speaks to you." | and suddenly shows it all round. "My old people!" Then he puts it back and swears: "Damned lousy war----" "It's all very well for you to talk," I tell him. "You've a wife and children." "True," he nods, "and I have to see to it that they've something to eat." We laugh. "They won't lack for that, Kat, you'd scrounge it from somewhere." Müller is insatiable and gives himself no peace. He wakes Haie Westhus out of his dream. "Haie, what would you do if it was peace time?" "Give you a kick in the backside for the way you talk," I say. "How does it come about exactly?" "How does the cow-shit come on the roof?" retorts Müller laconically, and turns to Haie Westhus again. It is too much for Haie. He shakes his freckled head: "You mean when the war's over?" "Exactly. You've said it." "Well, there'd be women of course, eh?" --Haie licks his lips. "Sure." "By Jove yes," says Haie, his face melting, "then I'd grab some good buxom dame, some real kitchen wench with plenty to get hold of, you know, and jump straight into bed. Just you think, boys, a real feather-bed with a spring mattress; I wouldn't put trousers on again for a week." Everyone is silent. The picture is too good. Our flesh creeps. At last Müller pulls himself together and says: "And then what?" A pause. Then Haie explains rather awkwardly: "If I were a non-com. I'd stay with the Prussians and serve out my time." "Haie, you've got a screw loose, surely!" I say. "Have you ever dug peat?" he retorts good-naturedly. "You try it." Then he pulls a spoon out of the top of his boot and reaches over into Kropp's mess-tin. "It can't be worse than digging trenches," I venture. Haie chews and grins: "It lasts longer though. And there's no getting out of it either."<|quote|>"But, man, surely it's better at home."</|quote|>"Some ways," says he, and with open mouth sinks into a day-dream. You can see what he is thinking. There is the mean little hut on the moors, the hard work on the heath from morning till night in the heat, the miserable pay, the dirty labourer's clothes. "In the army in peace time you've nothing to trouble about," he goes on, "your food's found every day, or else you kick up a row; you've a bed, every week clean under-wear like a perfect gent, you do your non-com.'s duty, you have a good suit of clothes; in the evening you're a free man and go off to the pub." Haie is extraordinarily set on his idea. He's in love with it. "And when your twelve years are up you get your pension and become a village bobby, and you can walk about the whole day." He's already sweating on it. "And just you think how you'd be treated. Here a dram, there a pint. Everybody wants to be well in with a bobby." "You'll never be a non-com. though, Haie," interrupts Kat. Haie looks at him sadly and is silent. His thoughts still linger over the clear evenings in autumn, the Sundays in the heather, the village bells, the afternoons and evenings with the servant girls, the fried bacon and barley, the care-free evening hours in the ale-house---- He can't part with all these dreams so abruptly; he merely growls: "What silly questions you do ask." He pulls his shirt over his head and buttons up his tunic. "What would you do, Tjaden?" asks Kropp. Tjaden thinks only of one thing. "See to it that Himmelstoss doesn't get past me." Apparently he would like most to have him in a cage and sail into him with a club every morning. To Kropp he says warmly: "If I were in your place I'd see to it that I became a lieutenant. Then you could grind him till the water in his backside boils." "And you, Detering?" asks Müller like an inquisitor. He's a born schoolmaster with all his questions. Detering is sparing with his words. But on this subject he speaks. He looks at the sky and says only the one sentence: "I would go straight on with the harvesting." Then he gets up and walks off. He is worried. His wife has to look after the farm. They've already taken away two of his horses. Every day he reads the papers that come, to see whether it is raining in his little corner of Oldenburg. They haven't brought the hay in yet. At this moment Himmelstoss appears. He comes straight up to our group. Tjaden's face turns red. He stretches his length on the grass and shuts his eyes in embarrassment. Himmelstoss is a little hesitant, his gait becomes slower. Then he marches up to us. No one makes any motion to stand up. Kropp looks up at him with interest. He continues to stand in front of us and wait. As no one says anything he launches a "Well?" A couple of seconds go by. Apparently Himmelstoss doesn't quite know what to do. He would like most to set us all on the run again. But he seems to have learned already that the front line isn't a parade ground. He tries it on though, and by addressing | All Quiet on the Western Front |
"He's a good chap." | Brett Ashley | Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He | Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't | mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will | Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire | a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to | back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him | know. Amazing, isn't it? Did you see my nose?" There was a patch of dried blood on the bridge of his nose. "An old lady's bags did that," Mike said. "I reached up to help her with them and they fell on me." Brett gestured at him from the bar with her cigarette-holder and wrinkled the corners of her eyes. "An old lady," said Mike. "Her bags _fell_ on me. Let's go in and see Brett. I say, she is a piece." "You _are_ a lovely lady, Brett. Where did you get that hat?" "Chap bought it for me. Don't you like it?" "It's a dreadful hat. Do get a good hat." "Oh, we've so much money now," Brett said. "I say, haven't you met Bill yet? You _are_ a lovely host, Jake." She turned to Mike. "This is Bill Gorton. This drunkard is Mike Campbell. Mr. Campbell is an undischarged bankrupt." "Aren't I, though? You know I met my ex-partner yesterday in London. Chap who did me in." "What did he say?" "Bought me a drink. I thought I might as well take it. I say, Brett, you _are_ a lovely piece. Don't you think she's beautiful?" "Beautiful. With this nose?" "It's a lovely nose. Go on, point it at me. Isn't she a lovely piece?" "Couldn't we have kept the man in Scotland?" "I say, Brett, let's turn in early." "Don't be indecent, Michael. Remember there are ladies at this bar." "Isn't she a lovely piece? Don't you think so, Jake?" "There's a fight to-night," Bill said. "Like to go?" "Fight," said Mike. "Who's fighting?" "Ledoux and somebody." "He's very good, Ledoux," Mike said. "I'd like to see it, rather" "--he was making an effort to pull himself together--" "but I can't go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett, do get a new hat." Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. "You two run along to the fight. I'll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home directly." "I'm not tight," Mike said. "Perhaps just a little. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece." "Go on to the fight," Brett said. "Mr. Campbell's getting difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?" "I say, you are a lovely piece." We said good night. "I'm sorry I can't go," Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?" "No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all." "He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said | Bill said. "Like to go?" "Fight," said Mike. "Who's fighting?" "Ledoux and somebody." "He's very good, Ledoux," Mike said. "I'd like to see it, rather" "--he was making an effort to pull himself together--" "but I can't go. I had a date with this thing here. I say, Brett, do get a new hat." Brett pulled the felt hat down far over one eye and smiled out from under it. "You two run along to the fight. I'll have to be taking Mr. Campbell home directly." "I'm not tight," Mike said. "Perhaps just a little. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece." "Go on to the fight," Brett said. "Mr. Campbell's getting difficult. What are these outbursts of affection, Michael?" "I say, you are a lovely piece." We said good night. "I'm sorry I can't go," Mike said. Brett laughed. I looked back from the door. Mike had one hand on the bar and was leaning toward Brett, talking. Brett was looking at him quite coolly, but the corners of her eyes were smiling. Outside on the pavement I said: "Do you want to go to the fight?" "Sure," said Bill. "If we don't have to walk." "Mike was pretty excited about his girl friend," I said in the taxi. "Well," said Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people."<|quote|>"He's a good chap."</|quote|>"Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We | The Sun Also Rises |
After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added: | No speaker | will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the | out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you | the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling | something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; | mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace. The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences." As soon as the sultan had returned to his own apartment, he sent for the grand vizier: "Vizier," said he, "have you seen your son, and has he told you anything?" The vizier replied: "No." The sultan related all the circumstances of which the princess had informed him, and afterward said: "I do not doubt but that my daughter has told me the truth; but nevertheless I should be glad to have it confirmed by your son, therefore go and ask him how it was." The grand | answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the princess, forgot nothing to divert her, and induce her to take part in the various diversions and shows; but she was so struck with the idea of what had happened to her in the night, that it was easy to see her thoughts were entirely taken up with it. Neither was the grand vizier's son in less tribulation, though his ambition made him disguise his feelings so well, that nobody doubted of his being a happy bridegroom. Aladdin, who was well acquainted with what passed in the palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said to him: "Bring the grand vizier's son and the Princess Badroulboudour hither to-night, as thou didst yesterday." The genie obeyed as faithfully and exactly as the day before; the grand vizier's son passed the night as coldly and disagreeably, and the princess had the same alarm and mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace. The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences." As soon as the sultan had returned to his own apartment, he sent for the grand vizier: "Vizier," said he, "have you seen your son, and has he told you anything?" The vizier replied: "No." The sultan related all the circumstances of which the princess had informed him, and afterward said: "I do not doubt but that my daughter has told me the truth; but nevertheless I should be glad to have it confirmed by your son, therefore go and ask him how it was." The grand vizier went immediately to his son, communicated what the sultan had told him, and enjoined him to conceal nothing, but to relate the whole truth. "I will disguise nothing from you, father," replied the son, "for indeed all that the princess has stated is true. Yet I must tell you, that all these experiences do not in the least lessen those sentiments of love and gratitude I entertain for her; but I must confess, that notwithstanding all the honour that attends marrying my sovereign's daughter, I would much rather die than continue in so exalted an alliance, if I must undergo much longer what I have already endured. I do not doubt but that the princess entertains the same sentiments, and that she will readily agree to a separation which is so necessary both for her repose and mine. Therefore, father, I beg, by the same tenderness which led you to procure me so great an honour, to obtain the sultan's consent that our marriage may be declared null and void." Notwithstanding the grand vizier's ambition to have his son allied to the sultan, the firm resolution he saw he had formed to be separated from the princess caused the | the princess's apartment, who was still in bed. She undrew the curtain, wished her good morrow, and kissed her. But how great was her surprise when she returned no answer; and looking more attentively at her, she perceived her to be much dejected, which made her judge that something had happened, which she did not understand. "How comes it, child," said the sultaness, "that you do not return my caresses? Ought you to treat your mother after this manner? I am induced to believe something extraordinary has happened; come, tell me freely, and leave me no longer in a painful suspense." At last the princess broke silence with a deep sigh, and said: "Alas! most honoured mother, forgive me if I have failed in the respect I owe you. My mind is so full of the extraordinary circumstances which have befallen me that I have not yet recovered from my amazement and alarm." She then related her surprising adventures, which the sultaness heard very patiently, but could scarcely believe. "You did well, child," said she, "not to speak of this to your father: take care not to mention it to anybody; for you will certainly be thought mad if you talk in this manner." "Madam," replied the princess, "I can assure you I am in my right senses; ask my husband and he will tell you the same circumstances." "I will," said the sultaness; "but if he should talk in the same manner, I shall not be better persuaded of the truth. Come, rise, and throw off this idle fancy; it will be strange if all the feasts and rejoicings in the kingdom should be interrupted by such a vision. Do not you hear the trumpets of congratulation, and concerts of the finest music? Cannot these inspire you with joy and make you forget the fancies of a dream?" At the same time the sultaness called the princess's women, and after she had seen her get up, went to the sultan's apartment, told him that her daughter had got some odd notions in her head, but that there was nothing in them but idle phantasy. She then sent for the vizier's son, to know of him something of what the princess had told her; but he, thinking himself highly honoured to be allied to the sultan, and not willing to lose the princess, denied what had happened. "That is enough," answered the sultaness; "I ask no more. I see you are wiser than my daughter." The rejoicings lasted all that day in the palace, and the sultaness, who never left the princess, forgot nothing to divert her, and induce her to take part in the various diversions and shows; but she was so struck with the idea of what had happened to her in the night, that it was easy to see her thoughts were entirely taken up with it. Neither was the grand vizier's son in less tribulation, though his ambition made him disguise his feelings so well, that nobody doubted of his being a happy bridegroom. Aladdin, who was well acquainted with what passed in the palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said to him: "Bring the grand vizier's son and the Princess Badroulboudour hither to-night, as thou didst yesterday." The genie obeyed as faithfully and exactly as the day before; the grand vizier's son passed the night as coldly and disagreeably, and the princess had the same alarm and mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace. The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences." As soon as the sultan had returned to his own apartment, he sent for the grand vizier: "Vizier," said he, "have you seen your son, and has he told you anything?" The vizier replied: "No." The sultan related all the circumstances of which the princess had informed him, and afterward said: "I do not doubt but that my daughter has told me the truth; but nevertheless I should be glad to have it confirmed by your son, therefore go and ask him how it was." The grand vizier went immediately to his son, communicated what the sultan had told him, and enjoined him to conceal nothing, but to relate the whole truth. "I will disguise nothing from you, father," replied the son, "for indeed all that the princess has stated is true. Yet I must tell you, that all these experiences do not in the least lessen those sentiments of love and gratitude I entertain for her; but I must confess, that notwithstanding all the honour that attends marrying my sovereign's daughter, I would much rather die than continue in so exalted an alliance, if I must undergo much longer what I have already endured. I do not doubt but that the princess entertains the same sentiments, and that she will readily agree to a separation which is so necessary both for her repose and mine. Therefore, father, I beg, by the same tenderness which led you to procure me so great an honour, to obtain the sultan's consent that our marriage may be declared null and void." Notwithstanding the grand vizier's ambition to have his son allied to the sultan, the firm resolution he saw he had formed to be separated from the princess caused the father to give his majesty a full account of what had passed, begging him finally to give his son leave to retire from the palace, alleging it was not just that the princess should be a moment longer exposed to so terrible a persecution upon his son's account. The grand vizier found no great difficulty to obtain what he asked, as the sultan had determined upon it already; orders were given to put a stop to all rejoicings in the palace and town, and expresses despatched to all parts of his dominions to countermand his first orders; and in a short time, all merry-making ceased. This sudden change gave rise both in the city and kingdom to various speculations and inquiries; but no other account could be given of it, except that both the vizier and his son went out of the palace much dejected. Nobody but Aladdin knew the secret, who rejoiced at the happy success procured by his lamp. Neither the sultan nor the grand vizier, who had forgotten Aladdin and his request, had the least thought that he had any concern in the enchantment which caused the dissolution of the marriage. Aladdin waited till the three months were completed, which the sultan had appointed for the consummation of the marriage between the Princess Badroulboudour and himself; and the next day sent his mother to the palace, to remind the sultan of his promise. The widow went to the palace, and stood in the same place as before in the hall of audience. The sultan no sooner cast his eyes upon her than he knew her again, remembered her business, and how long he had put her off: therefore, when the grand vizier was beginning to make his report, the sultan interrupted him, and said: "Vizier, I see the good woman who made me the present of jewels some months ago; forbear your report, till I have heard what she has to say." The vizier, looking about the divan, perceived the tailor's widow, and sent the chief of the mace-bearers to conduct her to the sultan. Aladdin's mother came to the foot of the throne, prostrated herself as usual, and when she rose, the sultan asked her what she would have. "Sir," said she, "I come to represent to your majesty, in the name of my son, Aladdin, that the three months, at the end of which you | palace, was resolved that the troublesome adventure of the night before should again disturb the unhappy pair, and therefore had recourse to his lamp, and when the genie appeared and offered his service, he said to him: "Bring the grand vizier's son and the Princess Badroulboudour hither to-night, as thou didst yesterday." The genie obeyed as faithfully and exactly as the day before; the grand vizier's son passed the night as coldly and disagreeably, and the princess had the same alarm and mortification. The genie, according to orders, came the next morning, and returned the new-married couple again to the palace. The sultan, after the reception the princess had given him, was very anxious to know how she had passed the second night, and therefore went into her chamber as early as the morning before. After the same caresses he had given her the former morning, he bade her good-morrow. "Well, daughter," said he, "are you in a better humour than yesterday?" Still the princess was silent, and the sultan, perceiving her to be in greater confusion than before, doubted not that something very extraordinary was the cause; but provoked that his daughter should conceal it, he said to her in a rage, with his sabre in his hand: "Daughter, tell me what is the matter, or I will cut off your head immediately." The princess, more frightened at the tone of the enraged sultan than at the sight of the drawn sabre, at last broke silence, and said with tears in her eyes: "My dear father and sultan, I ask your majesty's pardon if I have offended you, and hope that out of your goodness you will have compassion on me."<|quote|>After this preamble, which appeased the sultan, she told him what had happened to her in so moving a manner, that he, who loved her tenderly, was most sensibly grieved. She added:</|quote|>"If your majesty doubts the truth of this account, you may inform yourself from my husband, who will tell you the same thing." The sultan immediately felt all the uneasiness so surprising an adventure must have given the princess. "Daughter," said he, "you are much to blame for not telling me this yesterday, since it concerns me as much as yourself. I did not marry you to make you miserable, but that you might enjoy all the happiness you might hope for from a husband, who to me seemed agreeable to you. Efface all these troublesome ideas from your memory; I will take care that you shall have no more such disagreeable experiences." As soon as the sultan had returned to his own apartment, he sent for the grand vizier: "Vizier," said he, "have you seen your son, and has he told you anything?" The vizier replied: "No." The sultan related all the circumstances of which the princess had informed him, and afterward said: "I do not doubt but that my daughter has told me the truth; but nevertheless I should be glad to have it confirmed by your son, therefore go and ask him how it was." The grand vizier went immediately to his son, communicated what the sultan had told him, and enjoined him to conceal nothing, but to relate the whole truth. "I will disguise nothing from you, father," replied the son, "for indeed all that the princess has stated is true. Yet I must tell you, that all these experiences do not in the least lessen those sentiments of love and gratitude I entertain for her; but I must confess, that notwithstanding all the honour that attends marrying my sovereign's daughter, I would much rather die than continue in so exalted an alliance, if I must undergo much longer what I have already endured. I do not doubt but that the princess entertains the same sentiments, and that she will readily agree to a separation which is so necessary both for her repose and mine. Therefore, father, I beg, by the same tenderness which led you to procure me so great an honour, to obtain the sultan's consent that our marriage may be declared null and void." Notwithstanding the grand vizier's ambition to have his son allied to the sultan, the firm resolution he saw he had formed to be separated from the princess caused the father to give his majesty a full account of what had passed, begging him finally to give his son leave to retire from the palace, alleging it was not just that the princess should be a moment longer exposed to so terrible a persecution upon his son's account. The grand vizier found no great difficulty to obtain what he asked, as the sultan had determined upon it already; orders were given to put a stop to all rejoicings in the palace and town, and expresses despatched to all parts of his dominions to countermand his first orders; and in a short time, all merry-making ceased. This | Arabian Nights (4) |
"He'll mess up the examination for you." | Paul | I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"I don't care," says Mittelstaedt | any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"I don't care," says Mittelstaedt calmly. "Besides, his complaint came | 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."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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 | barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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 | adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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 | on a curtain pole. That is one of Himmelstoss' well-worn recipes. Kantorek can hardly expect anything else from Mittelstaedt, for he once messed up the latter's chance of promotion, and Mittelstaedt would be a big fool not to make the best of such a good opportunity as this, before he goes back to the front again. A man might well die easier after the army has given him just one such stroke of luck. In the meantime Kantorek is dashing up and down like a wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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 | 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." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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 no longer, and pretend I have just wakened up. "Go and sleep, mother, you will catch cold here." "I can sleep enough later," she says. I sit up. "I don't go straight back to the front, mother. I have to do four weeks at the training camp. I may come over from there one Sunday, perhaps." She is silent. Then she asks | wild-boar. After a while Mittelstaedt stops the skirmish and begins the very important exercise of creeping. On hands and knees, carrying his gun in regulation fashion, Kantorek shoves his absurd figure over the sand immediately in front of us. He is breathing hard, and his panting is music. Mittelstaedt encourages Kantorek the Territorial with quotations from Kantorek the school-master. "Territorial Kantorek, we have the good fortune to live in a great age, we must all humble ourselves and for once put aside bitterness." Kantorek sweats and spits out a dirty piece of wood that has lodged in his teeth. Mittelstaedt stoops down and says reproachfully: "And in the trifles never lose sight of the great adventure, Territorial Kantorek!" It amazes me that Kantorek does not explode with a bang, especially when, during physical exercises, Mittelstaedt copies him to perfection, seizing him by the seat of his trousers as he is climbing along the horizontal bar, so that he can just raise his chin above the beam, and then starts to give him good advice. That is exactly what Kantorek used to do to him at school. The extra fatigues are next detailed off. "Kantorek and Boettcher, bread fatigue! Take the handcart with you." In a couple of minutes the two set off together pushing the barrow. Kantorek in a fury walks with his head down. But the porter is delighted to have scored light duty. The bakehouse is away at the other end of the town, and the two must go there and back through the whole length of it. "They've done that a couple of times already," grins Mittelstaedt. "There are still a few people waiting to see them." "Excellent," I say, "but hasn't he reported you yet?" "He did try. Our C.O. laughed like the deuce when he heard the story. He hasn't any time for schoolmasters. Besides, I'm sweet with his daughter."<|quote|>"He'll mess up the examination for you."</|quote|>"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? | All Quiet on the Western Front |
she said in an unsteady voice. | No speaker | afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me | far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as | "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For | so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to | a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk | the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while | mutual dissimulation Archer once more disengaged the fact that New York believed him to be Madame Olenska's lover. He caught the glitter of victory in his wife's eyes, and for the first time understood that she shared the belief. The discovery roused a laughter of inner devils that reverberated through all his efforts to discuss the Martha Washington ball with Mrs. Reggie Chivers and little Mrs. Newland; and so the evening swept on, running and running like a senseless river that did not know how to stop. At length he saw that Madame Olenska had risen and was saying good-bye. He understood that in a moment she would be gone, and tried to remember what he had said to her at dinner; but he could not recall a single word they had exchanged. She went up to May, the rest of the company making a circle about her as she advanced. The two young women clasped hands; then May bent forward and kissed her cousin. "Certainly our hostess is much the handsomer of the two," Archer heard Reggie Chivers say in an undertone to young Mrs. Newland; and he remembered Beaufort's coarse sneer at May's ineffectual beauty. A moment later he was in the hall, putting Madame Olenska's cloak about her shoulders. Through all his confusion of mind he had held fast to the resolve to say nothing that might startle or disturb her. Convinced that no power could now turn him from his purpose he had found strength to let events shape themselves as they would. But as he followed Madame Olenska into the hall he thought with a sudden hunger of being for a moment alone with her at the door of her carriage. "Is your carriage here?" he asked; and at that moment Mrs. van der Luyden, who was being majestically inserted into her sables, said gently: "We are driving dear Ellen home." Archer's heart gave a jerk, and Madame Olenska, clasping her cloak and fan with one hand, held out the other to him. "Good-bye," she said. "Good-bye--but I shall see you soon in Paris," he answered aloud--it seemed to him that he had shouted it. "Oh," she murmured, "if you and May could come--!" Mr. van der Luyden advanced to give her his arm, and Archer turned to Mrs. van der Luyden. For a moment, in the billowy darkness inside the big landau, he caught the dim oval of a face, eyes shining steadily--and she was gone. As he went up the steps he crossed Lawrence Lefferts coming down with his wife. Lefferts caught his host by the sleeve, drawing back to let Gertrude pass. "I say, old chap: do you mind just letting it be understood that I'm dining with you at the club tomorrow night? Thanks so much, you old brick! Good-night." "It DID go off beautifully, didn't it?" May questioned from the threshold of the library. Archer roused himself with a start. As soon as the last carriage had driven away, he had come up to the library and shut himself in, with the hope that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued treasures, had suddenly pressed on a rusted spring of memory. "Why, this used to be one of the old Cesnola rooms," he heard some one say; and instantly everything about him vanished, and he was sitting alone on a hard leather divan against a radiator, while a slight figure in a long sealskin cloak moved away down the meagrely-fitted vista of the old Museum. The vision had roused a host of other associations, and he sat looking with new eyes at the library which, for over thirty years, had been the scene of his solitary musings and of all the family confabulations. It was the room in which most of the real things of his life had happened. There his wife, nearly twenty-six years ago, had broken to him, with a blushing circumlocution that would have caused the young women of the new generation to smile, the news that she was to have a child; and there their eldest boy, Dallas, too delicate to be taken to church in midwinter, had been christened by their old friend the Bishop of New York, the ample magnificent irreplaceable Bishop, so long the pride and ornament of his diocese. There Dallas had first staggered across the floor shouting "Dad," while May and the nurse laughed behind the door; there their second child, Mary (who was so like her mother), had announced her engagement to the dullest and most reliable of Reggie Chivers's many sons; and there Archer had kissed her through her wedding veil before they went down to the motor which was to carry them to Grace Church--for in a world where all else had reeled on its foundations the "Grace Church wedding" remained an unchanged institution. It was in the library that he and May had always discussed the future of the children: the studies of Dallas and his young brother Bill, Mary's incurable indifference to "accomplishments," and passion for sport and philanthropy, and the vague leanings toward "art" which had finally landed the restless and curious Dallas in the office of a rising New York architect. The young men nowadays were emancipating themselves from the law and business and taking up all sorts of new things. If they were not absorbed in state politics or municipal reform, the chances were that they were going in for Central American archaeology, for architecture or landscape-engineering; taking a keen and learned interest in the prerevolutionary buildings of their own country, studying and adapting Georgian types, and protesting at the meaningless use of the word "Colonial." Nobody nowadays had "Colonial" houses except the millionaire grocers of the suburbs. But above all--sometimes Archer put it above all--it was in that library | that his wife, who still lingered below, would go straight to her room. But there she stood, pale and drawn, yet radiating the factitious energy of one who has passed beyond fatigue. "May I come and talk it over?" she asked. "Of course, if you like. But you must be awfully sleepy--" "No, I'm not sleepy. I should like to sit with you a little." "Very well," he said, pushing her chair near the fire. She sat down and he resumed his seat; but neither spoke for a long time. At length Archer began abruptly: "Since you're not tired, and want to talk, there's something I must tell you. I tried to the other night--." She looked at him quickly. "Yes, dear. Something about yourself?" "About myself. You say you're not tired: well, I am. Horribly tired ..." In an instant she was all tender anxiety. "Oh, I've seen it coming on, Newland! You've been so wickedly overworked--" "Perhaps it's that. Anyhow, I want to make a break--" "A break? To give up the law?" "To go away, at any rate--at once. On a long trip, ever so far off--away from everything--" He paused, conscious that he had failed in his attempt to speak with the indifference of a man who longs for a change, and is yet too weary to welcome it. Do what he would, the chord of eagerness vibrated. "Away from everything--" he repeated. "Ever so far? Where, for instance?" she asked. "Oh, I don't know. India--or Japan." She stood up, and as he sat with bent head, his chin propped on his hands, he felt her warmly and fragrantly hovering over him. "As far as that? But I'm afraid you can't, dear ..."<|quote|>she said in an unsteady voice.</|quote|>"Not unless you'll take me with you." And then, as he was silent, she went on, in tones so clear and evenly-pitched that each separate syllable tapped like a little hammer on his brain: "That is, if the doctors will let me go ... but I'm afraid they won't. For you see, Newland, I've been sure since this morning of something I've been so longing and hoping for--" He looked up at her with a sick stare, and she sank down, all dew and roses, and hid her face against his knee. "Oh, my dear," he said, holding her to him while his cold hand stroked her hair. There was a long pause, which the inner devils filled with strident laughter; then May freed herself from his arms and stood up. "You didn't guess--?" "Yes--I; no. That is, of course I hoped--" They looked at each other for an instant and again fell silent; then, turning his eyes from hers, he asked abruptly: "Have you told any one else?" "Only Mamma and your mother." She paused, and then added hurriedly, the blood flushing up to her forehead: "That is--and Ellen. You know I told you we'd had a long talk one afternoon--and how dear she was to me." "Ah--" said Archer, his heart stopping. He felt that his wife was watching him intently. "Did you MIND my telling her first, Newland?" "Mind? Why should I?" He made a last effort to collect himself. "But that was a fortnight ago, wasn't it? I thought you said you weren't sure till today." Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. "No; I wasn't sure then--but I told her I was. And you see I was right!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory. XXXIV. Newland Archer sat at the writing-table in his library in East Thirty-ninth Street. He had just got back from a big official reception for the inauguration of the new galleries at the Metropolitan Museum, and the spectacle of those great spaces crowded with the spoils of the ages, where the throng of fashion circulated through a series of scientifically catalogued | The Age Of Innocence |
"We have not been so silent all the time," | Lady Bertram | noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has | for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and | In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those | more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully | how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading | more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement. Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from | friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand. William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time. After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him. Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess. He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement. Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram. Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and fixed on Crawford fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too. "That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well." "It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately." "No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent." "Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content them. Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. "It was really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford | more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner. In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.<|quote|>"We have not been so silent all the time,"</|quote|>replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's what's his name, Fanny? when we heard your footsteps." Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight | Mansfield Park |
"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific." | Yegor Semyonitch | smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid | Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep | sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At | and danced the mazurka; he was in high spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a peculiar look, radiant and inspired, and that he was very interesting. III After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At last he began to give way. "In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's all nonsense ... | to himself the strange apparition, glad that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only the monk's black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably excited, he went back to the house. In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in the house they were playing--so he alone had seen the monk. He had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing. He laughed aloud, sang, and danced the mazurka; he was in high spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a peculiar look, radiant and inspired, and that he was very interesting. III After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At last he began to give way. "In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's all nonsense ... tiresome stuff. Besides, I believe it's bedtime." Tanya went away. Yegor Semyonitch sat down on the sofa by Kovrin and heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, my boy ..." he began after a pause. "That's how it is, my dear lecturer. Here I write articles, and take part in exhibitions, and receive medals.... Pesotsky, they say, has apples the size of a head, and Pesotsky, they say, has made his fortune with his garden. In short, 'Kotcheby is rich and glorious.' But one asks oneself: what is it all for? The garden is certainly fine, a model. It's not really a | stronger--the rye began rustling, and he heard behind him the hollow murmur of the pines. Kovrin stood still in amazement. From the horizon there rose up to the sky, like a whirlwind or a waterspout, a tall black column. Its outline was indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and the more distinct it was. Kovrin moved aside into the rye to make way for it, and only just had time to do so. A monk, dressed in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his arms crossed over his breast, floated by him.... His bare feet did not touch the earth. After he had floated twenty feet beyond him, he looked round at Kovrin, and nodded to him with a friendly but sly smile. But what a pale, fearfully pale, thin face! Beginning to grow larger again, he flew across the river, collided noiselessly with the clay bank and pines, and passing through them, vanished like smoke. "Why, you see," muttered Kovrin, "there must be truth in the legend." Without trying to explain to himself the strange apparition, glad that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only the monk's black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably excited, he went back to the house. In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in the house they were playing--so he alone had seen the monk. He had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing. He laughed aloud, sang, and danced the mazurka; he was in high spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a peculiar look, radiant and inspired, and that he was very interesting. III After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At last he began to give way. "In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's all nonsense ... tiresome stuff. Besides, I believe it's bedtime." Tanya went away. Yegor Semyonitch sat down on the sofa by Kovrin and heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, my boy ..." he began after a pause. "That's how it is, my dear lecturer. Here I write articles, and take part in exhibitions, and receive medals.... Pesotsky, they say, has apples the size of a head, and Pesotsky, they say, has made his fortune with his garden. In short, 'Kotcheby is rich and glorious.' But one asks oneself: what is it all for? The garden is certainly fine, a model. It's not really a garden, but a regular institution, which is of the greatest public importance because it marks, so to say, a new era in Russian agriculture and Russian industry. But, what's it for? What's the object of it?" "The fact speaks for itself." "I do not mean in that sense. I meant to ask: what will happen to the garden when I die? In the condition in which you see it now, it would not be maintained for one month without me. The whole secret of success lies not in its being a big garden or a great number of labourers being employed in it, but in the fact that I love the work. Do you understand? I love it perhaps more than myself. Look at me; I do everything myself. I work from morning to night: I do all the grafting myself, the pruning myself, the planting myself. I do it all myself: when any one helps me I am jealous and irritable till I am rude. The whole secret lies in loving it--that is, in the sharp eye of the master; yes, and in the master's hands, and in the feeling that makes one, when one goes anywhere for an | fact that, exactly a thousand years from the day when the monk walked in the desert, the mirage will return to the atmosphere of the earth again and will appear to men. And it seems that the thousand years is almost up.... According to the legend, we may look out for the black monk to-day or to-morrow." "A queer mirage," said Tanya, who did not like the legend. "But the most wonderful part of it all," laughed Kovrin, "is that I simply cannot recall where I got this legend from. Have I read it somewhere? Have I heard it? Or perhaps I dreamed of the black monk. I swear I don't remember. But the legend interests me. I have been thinking about it all day." Letting Tanya go back to her visitors, he went out of the house, and, lost in meditation, walked by the flower-beds. The sun was already setting. The flowers, having just been watered, gave forth a damp, irritating fragrance. Indoors they began singing again, and in the distance the violin had the effect of a human voice. Kovrin, racking his brains to remember where he had read or heard the legend, turned slowly towards the park, and unconsciously went as far as the river. By a little path that ran along the steep bank, between the bare roots, he went down to the water, disturbed the peewits there and frightened two ducks. The last rays of the setting sun still threw light here and there on the gloomy pines, but it was quite dark on the surface of the river. Kovrin crossed to the other side by the narrow bridge. Before him lay a wide field covered with young rye not yet in blossom. There was no living habitation, no living soul in the distance, and it seemed as though the little path, if one went along it, would take one to the unknown, mysterious place where the sun had just gone down, and where the evening glow was flaming in immensity and splendour. "How open, how free, how still it is here!" thought Kovrin, walking along the path. "And it feels as though all the world were watching me, hiding and waiting for me to understand it...." But then waves began running across the rye, and a light evening breeze softly touched his uncovered head. A minute later there was another gust of wind, but stronger--the rye began rustling, and he heard behind him the hollow murmur of the pines. Kovrin stood still in amazement. From the horizon there rose up to the sky, like a whirlwind or a waterspout, a tall black column. Its outline was indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and the more distinct it was. Kovrin moved aside into the rye to make way for it, and only just had time to do so. A monk, dressed in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his arms crossed over his breast, floated by him.... His bare feet did not touch the earth. After he had floated twenty feet beyond him, he looked round at Kovrin, and nodded to him with a friendly but sly smile. But what a pale, fearfully pale, thin face! Beginning to grow larger again, he flew across the river, collided noiselessly with the clay bank and pines, and passing through them, vanished like smoke. "Why, you see," muttered Kovrin, "there must be truth in the legend." Without trying to explain to himself the strange apparition, glad that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only the monk's black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably excited, he went back to the house. In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in the house they were playing--so he alone had seen the monk. He had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing. He laughed aloud, sang, and danced the mazurka; he was in high spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a peculiar look, radiant and inspired, and that he was very interesting. III After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At last he began to give way. "In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's all nonsense ... tiresome stuff. Besides, I believe it's bedtime." Tanya went away. Yegor Semyonitch sat down on the sofa by Kovrin and heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, my boy ..." he began after a pause. "That's how it is, my dear lecturer. Here I write articles, and take part in exhibitions, and receive medals.... Pesotsky, they say, has apples the size of a head, and Pesotsky, they say, has made his fortune with his garden. In short, 'Kotcheby is rich and glorious.' But one asks oneself: what is it all for? The garden is certainly fine, a model. It's not really a garden, but a regular institution, which is of the greatest public importance because it marks, so to say, a new era in Russian agriculture and Russian industry. But, what's it for? What's the object of it?" "The fact speaks for itself." "I do not mean in that sense. I meant to ask: what will happen to the garden when I die? In the condition in which you see it now, it would not be maintained for one month without me. The whole secret of success lies not in its being a big garden or a great number of labourers being employed in it, but in the fact that I love the work. Do you understand? I love it perhaps more than myself. Look at me; I do everything myself. I work from morning to night: I do all the grafting myself, the pruning myself, the planting myself. I do it all myself: when any one helps me I am jealous and irritable till I am rude. The whole secret lies in loving it--that is, in the sharp eye of the master; yes, and in the master's hands, and in the feeling that makes one, when one goes anywhere for an hour's visit, sit, ill at ease, with one's heart far away, afraid that something may have happened in the garden. But when I die, who will look after it? Who will work? The gardener? The labourers? Yes? But I will tell you, my dear fellow, the worst enemy in the garden is not a hare, not a cockchafer, and not the frost, but any outside person." "And Tanya?" asked Kovrin, laughing. "She can't be more harmful than a hare? She loves the work and understands it." "Yes, she loves it and understands it. If after my death the garden goes to her and she is the mistress, of course nothing better could be wished. But if, which God forbid, she should marry," Yegor Semyonitch whispered, and looked with a frightened look at Kovrin, "that's just it. If she marries and children come, she will have no time to think about the garden. What I fear most is: she will marry some fine gentleman, and he will be greedy, and he will let the garden to people who will run it for profit, and everything will go to the devil the very first year! In our work females are the scourge of God!" Yegor Semyonitch sighed and paused for a while. "Perhaps it is egoism, but I tell you frankly: I don't want Tanya to get married. I am afraid of it! There is one young dandy comes to see us, bringing his violin and scraping on it; I know Tanya will not marry him, I know it quite well; but I can't bear to see him! Altogether, my boy, I am very queer. I know that." Yegor Semyonitch got up and walked about the room in excitement, and it was evident that he wanted to say something very important, but could not bring himself to it. "I am very fond of you, and so I am going to speak to you openly," he decided at last, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I deal plainly with certain delicate questions, and say exactly what I think, and I cannot endure so-called hidden thoughts. I will speak plainly: you are the only man to whom I should not be afraid to marry my daughter. You are a clever man with a good heart, and would not let my beloved work go to ruin; and the chief reason is that I love you | in the distance, and it seemed as though the little path, if one went along it, would take one to the unknown, mysterious place where the sun had just gone down, and where the evening glow was flaming in immensity and splendour. "How open, how free, how still it is here!" thought Kovrin, walking along the path. "And it feels as though all the world were watching me, hiding and waiting for me to understand it...." But then waves began running across the rye, and a light evening breeze softly touched his uncovered head. A minute later there was another gust of wind, but stronger--the rye began rustling, and he heard behind him the hollow murmur of the pines. Kovrin stood still in amazement. From the horizon there rose up to the sky, like a whirlwind or a waterspout, a tall black column. Its outline was indistinct, but from the first instant it could be seen that it was not standing still, but moving with fearful rapidity, moving straight towards Kovrin, and the nearer it came the smaller and the more distinct it was. Kovrin moved aside into the rye to make way for it, and only just had time to do so. A monk, dressed in black, with a grey head and black eyebrows, his arms crossed over his breast, floated by him.... His bare feet did not touch the earth. After he had floated twenty feet beyond him, he looked round at Kovrin, and nodded to him with a friendly but sly smile. But what a pale, fearfully pale, thin face! Beginning to grow larger again, he flew across the river, collided noiselessly with the clay bank and pines, and passing through them, vanished like smoke. "Why, you see," muttered Kovrin, "there must be truth in the legend." Without trying to explain to himself the strange apparition, glad that he had succeeded in seeing so near and so distinctly, not only the monk's black garments, but even his face and eyes, agreeably excited, he went back to the house. In the park and in the garden people were moving about quietly, in the house they were playing--so he alone had seen the monk. He had an intense desire to tell Tanya and Yegor Semyonitch, but he reflected that they would certainly think his words the ravings of delirium, and that would frighten them; he had better say nothing. He laughed aloud, sang, and danced the mazurka; he was in high spirits, and all of them, the visitors and Tanya, thought he had a peculiar look, radiant and inspired, and that he was very interesting. III After supper, when the visitors had gone, he went to his room and lay down on the sofa: he wanted to think about the monk. But a minute later Tanya came in. "Here, Andryusha; read father's articles," she said, giving him a bundle of pamphlets and proofs. "They are splendid articles. He writes capitally." "Capitally, indeed!" said Yegor Semyonitch, following her and smiling constrainedly; he was ashamed.<|quote|>"Don't listen to her, please; don't read them! Though, if you want to go to sleep, read them by all means; they are a fine soporific."</|quote|>"I think they are splendid articles," said Tanya, with deep conviction. "You read them, Andryusha, and persuade father to write oftener. He could write a complete manual of horticulture." Yegor Semyonitch gave a forced laugh, blushed, and began uttering the phrases usually made use of by an embarrassed author. At last he began to give way. "In that case, begin with Gaucher's article and these Russian articles," he muttered, turning over the pamphlets with a trembling hand, "or else you won't understand. Before you read my objections, you must know what I am objecting to. But it's all nonsense ... tiresome stuff. Besides, I believe it's bedtime." Tanya went away. Yegor Semyonitch sat down on the sofa by Kovrin and heaved a deep sigh. "Yes, my boy ..." he began after a pause. "That's how it is, my dear lecturer. Here I write articles, and take part in exhibitions, and receive medals.... Pesotsky, they say, has apples the size of a head, and Pesotsky, they say, has made his fortune with his garden. In short, 'Kotcheby is rich and glorious.' But one asks oneself: what is it all for? The garden is certainly fine, a model. It's not really a garden, but a regular institution, which is of the greatest public importance because it marks, so to say, a new era in Russian agriculture and Russian industry. But, what's it for? What's the object of it?" "The fact speaks for itself." "I do not mean in that sense. I meant to ask: what will happen to the garden when I die? In the condition in which you | The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (6) |
interpreted Helen. | No speaker | "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then | seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s | Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to | did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, | s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over | meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let | ruined him, and I suppose you ll tell me it s the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train." "Helen, are you mad?" "Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I m mad. But I ve brought them. I ll stand injustice no longer. I ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we re too slack to do ourselves." "Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, Helen?" Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. "There was a restaurant car on the train," she said. "Don t be absurd. They aren t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the beginning. I won t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie s wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. Look" "--she indicated the house--" "servants, people out of the windows. They think it s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, Oh no, it s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason." "Kindly take back that word hangers-on," said Helen, ominously calm. "Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you ve brought them here, or why you re here yourself." "It s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox." Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry Henry. "He s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him." "Yes, to-morrow." "I knew it was our last chance." "How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice. "This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?" "There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen. Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice. "Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers. "I m sure I don t want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to Margaret s question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can t give him, but possibly Henry can." "It s his duty to," grumbled Helen. "Nor am I concerned with duty. I m concerned with the characters of various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a little better." "Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly." "Take them off to the George, then, and I ll try. Poor creatures! but they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven t nearly done with you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can t get over it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and alter yourself, or we shan t have happy lives." She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a pleasant smile. "You ll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It s all right now, but it was my sister." "Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the invitation. I thought hated weddings." "Don t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I ve bundled her off to the George." Inherently hospitable, he protested. "No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them." "Let em all come." "My dear Henry, did you see them?" "I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly." "The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon bunch?" "What! are | me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered whether--" "Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening s work that was on Chelsea Embankment." Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. "I don t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad concern, didn t you?" "That s right." "And went into a bank instead?" "I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after he had been in a month, and now he s penniless, and I consider that we and our informant are directly to blame." "I hate all this," Leonard muttered. "I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it s no good mincing matters. You have done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake." "I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen. "I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It s too late to get to town, but you ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope you ll be my guests there." "That isn t what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You re very kind, and no doubt it s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at all." "It s work he wants,"<|quote|>interpreted Helen.</|quote|>"Can t you see?" Then he said: "Jacky, let s go. We re more bother than we re worth. We re costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they never will. There s nothing we re good enough to do." "We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally. "We want to--I, like my sister. You re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a good night s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer it." But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. "You don t know what you re talking about," he said. "I shall never get work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, and I ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but that s all. Poetry s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it s all over with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It s no good. It s the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor." He ceased. "Won t you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don t know what to do. It isn t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast." They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen. She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he s worth helping. I agree that we are directly responsible." "No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox." "Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I ll do nothing. No doubt you re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won t have it. So choose." Helen looked at the sunset. "If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be | Howards End |
"You can t help it," | Ralph Denham | if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you | you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of | in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a | pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not | what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and | "I ve won?" she repeated, thinking of the argument. "I wish to God I hadn t asked you here," he burst out. "What do you mean?" "When you re here, it s different I m happy. You ve only to walk to the window you ve only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all" He stopped short. "You thought how ordinary I was." "I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever." An immense relief, and a reluctance to enjoy that relief, conflicted in her heart. She slid down into the chair. "I thought you disliked me," she said. "God knows I tried," he replied. "I ve done my best to see you as you are, without any of this damned romantic nonsense. That was why I asked you here, and it s increased my folly. When you re gone I shall look out of that window and think of you. I shall waste the whole evening thinking of you. I shall waste my whole life, I believe." He spoke with such vehemence that her relief disappeared; she frowned; and her tone changed to one almost of severity. "This is what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you." "Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?" she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing | have liked to go on telling her about them, but he checked himself. "I see that it must be difficult to leave them," Katharine continued. His deep pride in his family was more evident to him, at that moment, than ever before, and the idea of living alone in a cottage was ridiculous. All that brotherhood and sisterhood, and a common childhood in a common past mean, all the stability, the unambitious comradeship, and tacit understanding of family life at its best, came to his mind, and he thought of them as a company, of which he was the leader, bound on a difficult, dreary, but glorious voyage. And it was Katharine who had opened his eyes to this, he thought. A little dry chirp from the corner of the room now roused her attention. "My tame rook," he explained briefly. "A cat had bitten one of its legs." She looked at the rook, and her eyes went from one object to another. "You sit here and read?" she said, her eyes resting upon his books. He said that he was in the habit of working there at night. "The great advantage of Highgate is the view over London. At night the view from my window is splendid." He was extremely anxious that she should appreciate his view, and she rose to see what was to be seen. It was already dark enough for the turbulent haze to be yellow with the light of street lamps, and she tried to determine the quarters of the city beneath her. The sight of her gazing from his window gave him a peculiar satisfaction. When she turned, at length, he was still sitting motionless in his chair. "It must be late," she said. "I must be going." She settled upon the arm of the chair irresolutely, thinking that she had no wish to go home. William would be there, and he would find some way of making things unpleasant for her, and the memory of their quarrel came back to her. She had noticed Ralph s coldness, too. She looked at him, and from his fixed stare she thought that he must be working out some theory, some argument. He had thought, perhaps, of some fresh point in his position, as to the bounds of personal liberty. She waited, silently, thinking about liberty. "You ve won again," he said at last, without moving. "I ve won?" she repeated, thinking of the argument. "I wish to God I hadn t asked you here," he burst out. "What do you mean?" "When you re here, it s different I m happy. You ve only to walk to the window you ve only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all" He stopped short. "You thought how ordinary I was." "I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever." An immense relief, and a reluctance to enjoy that relief, conflicted in her heart. She slid down into the chair. "I thought you disliked me," she said. "God knows I tried," he replied. "I ve done my best to see you as you are, without any of this damned romantic nonsense. That was why I asked you here, and it s increased my folly. When you re gone I shall look out of that window and think of you. I shall waste the whole evening thinking of you. I shall waste my whole life, I believe." He spoke with such vehemence that her relief disappeared; she frowned; and her tone changed to one almost of severity. "This is what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you." "Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?" she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and bade him good night. CHAPTER XXVIII Like a strain of music, the effect of Katharine s presence slowly died from the room in which Ralph sat alone. The music had ceased in the rapture of its melody. He strained to catch the faintest lingering echoes; for a moment the memory lulled him into peace; but soon it failed, and he paced the room so hungry for the sound to come again that he was conscious of no other desire left in life. She had gone without speaking; abruptly a chasm had been cut in his course, down which the tide of his being plunged in disorder; fell upon rocks; flung itself to destruction. The distress had an effect of physical ruin and disaster. He trembled; he was white; he felt exhausted, as if by a great physical effort. He sank at last into a chair standing opposite her empty one, and marked, mechanically, with his eye upon the clock, how she went farther and farther from him, was home now, and now, doubtless, again with Rodney. But it was long before he could realize these facts; the immense desire for her presence churned his senses into foam, into froth, into a haze of emotion that removed all facts from his grasp, and gave him a strange sense of distance, even from the material shapes of wall and window by which he was surrounded. The prospect of the future, now that the strength of his passion was revealed | be working out some theory, some argument. He had thought, perhaps, of some fresh point in his position, as to the bounds of personal liberty. She waited, silently, thinking about liberty. "You ve won again," he said at last, without moving. "I ve won?" she repeated, thinking of the argument. "I wish to God I hadn t asked you here," he burst out. "What do you mean?" "When you re here, it s different I m happy. You ve only to walk to the window you ve only to talk about liberty. When I saw you down there among them all" He stopped short. "You thought how ordinary I was." "I tried to think so. But I thought you more wonderful than ever." An immense relief, and a reluctance to enjoy that relief, conflicted in her heart. She slid down into the chair. "I thought you disliked me," she said. "God knows I tried," he replied. "I ve done my best to see you as you are, without any of this damned romantic nonsense. That was why I asked you here, and it s increased my folly. When you re gone I shall look out of that window and think of you. I shall waste the whole evening thinking of you. I shall waste my whole life, I believe." He spoke with such vehemence that her relief disappeared; she frowned; and her tone changed to one almost of severity. "This is what I foretold. We shall gain nothing but unhappiness. Look at me, Ralph." He looked at her. "I assure you that I m far more ordinary than I appear. Beauty means nothing whatever. In fact, the most beautiful women are generally the most stupid. I m not that, but I m a matter-of-fact, prosaic, rather ordinary character; I order the dinner, I pay the bills, I do the accounts, I wind up the clock, and I never look at a book." "You forget" he began, but she would not let him speak. "You come and see me among flowers and pictures, and think me mysterious, romantic, and all the rest of it. Being yourself very inexperienced and very emotional, you go home and invent a story about me, and now you can t separate me from the person you ve imagined me to be. You call that, I suppose, being in love; as a matter of fact it s being in delusion. All romantic people are the same," she added. "My mother spends her life in making stories about the people she s fond of. But I won t have you do it about me, if I can help it."<|quote|>"You can t help it,"</|quote|>he said. "I warn you it s the source of all evil." "And of all good," he added. "You ll find out that I m not what you think me." "Perhaps. But I shall gain more than I lose." "If such gain s worth having." They were silent for a space. "That may be what we have to face," he said. "There may be nothing else. Nothing but what we imagine." "The reason of our loneliness," she mused, and they were silent for a time. "When are you to be married?" he asked abruptly, with a change of tone. "Not till September, I think. It s been put off." "You won t be lonely then," he said. "According to what people say, marriage is a very queer business. They say it s different from anything else. It may be true. I ve known one or two cases where it seems to be true." He hoped that she would go on with the subject. But she made no reply. He had done his best to master himself, and his voice was sufficiently indifferent, but her silence tormented him. She would never speak to him of Rodney of her own accord, and her reserve left a whole continent of her soul in darkness. "It may be put off even longer than that," she said, as if by an afterthought. "Some one in the office is ill, and William has to take his place. We may put it off for some time in fact." "That s rather hard on him, isn t it?" Ralph asked. "He has his work," she replied. "He has lots of things that interest him.... I know I ve been to that place," she broke off, pointing to a photograph. "But I can t remember where it is oh, of course it s Oxford. Now, what about your cottage?" "I m not going to take it." "How you change your mind!" she smiled. "It s not that," he said impatiently. "It s that I want to be where I can see you." "Our compact is going to hold in spite of all I ve said?" she asked. "For ever, so far as I m concerned," he replied. "You re going to go on dreaming and imagining and making up stories about me as you walk along the street, and pretending that we re riding in a forest, or landing on an island" "No. I shall think of you ordering dinner, paying bills, doing the accounts, showing old ladies the relics" "That s better," she said. "You can think of me to-morrow morning looking up dates in the Dictionary of National Biography." "And forgetting your purse," Ralph added. At this she smiled, but in another moment her smile faded, either because of his words or of the way in which he spoke them. She was capable of forgetting things. He saw that. But what more did he see? Was he not looking at something she had never shown to anybody? Was it not something so profound that the notion of his seeing it almost shocked her? Her smile faded, and for a moment she seemed upon the point of speaking, but looking at him in silence, with a look that seemed to ask what she could not put into words, she turned and | Night And Day |
Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. | No speaker | Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in | should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through | people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. | dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of | lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling | how the pudding is made." "Italy has done it." "Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events | It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool, and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past. The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son. Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's, had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. "Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful." "Her music always was wonderful." "Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made." "Italy has done it." "Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled. "That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal." "I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same." "We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired. "The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, "which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies." Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere. "In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden." "I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him. "I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage." "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 | you marry her next January. She is one of us already." "But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At all events, not for women." "Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed. As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams." "Bad dreams?" "Just dreams." The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that." Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored. Darkness enveloped the flat. Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe. "Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little." "M'm." "They might amuse you." Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in. "I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are worth it."<|quote|>Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa.</|quote|>"Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible. A grave voice replied, "Hullo!" "I've brought someone to see you." "I'll be down in a minute." The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books. "Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they that sort?" "I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch." "Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones. On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes." "I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man's doing." "How very odd of him!" "Surely you agree?" But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture. "Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room. "Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound." "The same as Lucy's got." "Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?" "She came back yesterday." "I suppose she had a good time?" "Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are thicker than ever." "That's good hearing." "I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe." Mr. Beebe ignored the remark. "Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books." "So will you." "Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says--" "What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think we'll come another time." George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking. "Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour." Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe." "Oh, all right," said George, impassive. Mr. Beebe was highly entertained. "'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a | A Room With A View |
said Mrs. Hall. | No speaker | op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages | had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be | the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner | visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain t you done them taters _yet_, | again. "I ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I _never_," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with _now_, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain t you done them taters _yet_, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger s lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the | was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright, pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high, black, linen-lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn t know, sir," she began, "that" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I _never_," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with _now_, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain t you done them taters _yet_, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger s lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto. "I have some luggage," he said, "at Bramblehurst station," and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. "To-morrow?" he said. "There is no speedier delivery?" and seemed quite disappointed when she answered, "No." Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over? Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a conversation. "It s a steep road by the down, sir," she said in answer to the question about a trap; and then, snatching at an opening, said, "It was there a carriage was upsettled, a year ago and more. A gentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a moment, don t they?" But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily. "They do," he said through his muffler, eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable glasses. "But they take long enough to get well, don t they? ... There was | When she returned he was still standing there, like a man of stone, his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat-brim turned down, hiding his face and ears completely. She put down the eggs and bacon with considerable emphasis, and called rather than said to him, "Your lunch is served, sir." "Thank you," he said at the same time, and did not stir until she was closing the door. Then he swung round and approached the table with a certain eager quickness. As she went behind the bar to the kitchen she heard a sound repeated at regular intervals. Chirk, chirk, chirk, it went, the sound of a spoon being rapidly whisked round a basin. "That girl!" she said. "There! I clean forgot it. It s her being so long!" And while she herself finished mixing the mustard, she gave Millie a few verbal stabs for her excessive slowness. She had cooked the ham and eggs, laid the table, and done everything, while Millie (help indeed!) had only succeeded in delaying the mustard. And him a new guest and wanting to stay! Then she filled the mustard pot, and, putting it with a certain stateliness upon a gold and black tea-tray, carried it into the parlour. She rapped and entered promptly. As she did so her visitor moved quickly, so that she got but a glimpse of a white object disappearing behind the table. It would seem he was picking something from the floor. She rapped down the mustard pot on the table, and then she noticed the overcoat and hat had been taken off and put over a chair in front of the fire, and a pair of wet boots threatened rust to her steel fender. She went to these things resolutely. "I suppose I may have them to dry now," she said in a voice that brooked no denial. "Leave the hat," said her visitor, in a muffled voice, and turning she saw he had raised his head and was sitting and looking at her. For a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak. He held a white cloth it was a serviette he had brought with him over the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright, pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high, black, linen-lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn t know, sir," she began, "that" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I _never_," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with _now_, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain t you done them taters _yet_, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger s lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto. "I have some luggage," he said, "at Bramblehurst station," and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. "To-morrow?" he said. "There is no speedier delivery?" and seemed quite disappointed when she answered, "No." Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over? Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a conversation. "It s a steep road by the down, sir," she said in answer to the question about a trap; and then, snatching at an opening, said, "It was there a carriage was upsettled, a year ago and more. A gentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a moment, don t they?" But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily. "They do," he said through his muffler, eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable glasses. "But they take long enough to get well, don t they? ... There was my sister s son, Tom, jest cut his arm with a scythe, tumbled on it in the ayfield, and, bless me! he was three months tied up sir. You d hardly believe it. It s regular given me a dread of a scythe, sir." "I can quite understand that," said the visitor. "He was afraid, one time, that he d have to have an op ration he was that bad, sir." The visitor laughed abruptly, a bark of a laugh that he seemed to bite and kill in his mouth. "_Was_ he?" he said. "He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him, as I had my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There was bandages to do, sir, and bandages to undo. So that if I may make so bold as to say it, sir" "Will you get me some matches?" said the visitor, quite abruptly. "My pipe is out." Mrs. Hall was pulled up suddenly. It was certainly rude of him, after telling him all she had done. She gasped at him for a moment, and remembered the two sovereigns. She went for the matches. "Thanks," he said concisely, as she put them down, and turned his shoulder upon her and stared out of the window again. It was altogether too discouraging. Evidently he was sensitive on the topic of operations and bandages. She did not "make so bold as to say," however, after all. But his snubbing way had irritated her, and Millie had a hot time of it that afternoon. The visitor remained in the parlour until four o clock, without giving the ghost of an excuse for an intrusion. For the most part he was quite still during that time; it would seem he sat in the growing darkness smoking in the firelight perhaps dozing. Once or twice a curious listener might have heard him at the coals, and for the space of five minutes he was audible pacing the room. He seemed to be talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he sat down again. CHAPTER II. MR. TEDDY HENFREY S FIRST IMPRESSIONS At four o clock, when it was fairly dark and Mrs. Hall was screwing up her courage to go in and ask her visitor if he would take some tea, Teddy Henfrey, the clock-jobber, came into the bar. "My sakes! | that brooked no denial. "Leave the hat," said her visitor, in a muffled voice, and turning she saw he had raised his head and was sitting and looking at her. For a moment she stood gaping at him, too surprised to speak. He held a white cloth it was a serviette he had brought with him over the lower part of his face, so that his mouth and jaws were completely hidden, and that was the reason of his muffled voice. But it was not that which startled Mrs. Hall. It was the fact that all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and that another covered his ears, leaving not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose. It was bright, pink, and shiny just as it had been at first. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high, black, linen-lined collar turned up about his neck. The thick black hair, escaping as it could below and between the cross bandages, projected in curious tails and horns, giving him the strangest appearance conceivable. This muffled and bandaged head was so unlike what she had anticipated, that for a moment she was rigid. He did not remove the serviette, but remained holding it, as she saw now, with a brown gloved hand, and regarding her with his inscrutable blue glasses. "Leave the hat," he said, speaking very distinctly through the white cloth. Her nerves began to recover from the shock they had received. She placed the hat on the chair again by the fire. "I didn t know, sir," she began, "that" and she stopped embarrassed. "Thank you," he said drily, glancing from her to the door and then at her again. "I ll have them nicely dried, sir, at once," she said, and carried his clothes out of the room. She glanced at his white-swathed head and blue goggles again as she was going out of the door; but his napkin was still in front of his face. She shivered a little as she closed the door behind her, and her face was eloquent of her surprise and perplexity. "I _never_," she whispered. "There!" She went quite softly to the kitchen, and was too preoccupied to ask Millie what she was messing about with _now_, when she got there. The visitor sat and listened to her retreating feet. He glanced inquiringly at the window before he removed his serviette, and resumed his meal. He took a mouthful, glanced suspiciously at the window, took another mouthful, then rose and, taking the serviette in his hand, walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that obscured the lower panes. This left the room in a twilight. This done, he returned with an easier air to the table and his meal. "The poor soul s had an accident or an op ration or somethin ,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Hall.</|quote|>"What a turn them bandages did give me, to be sure!" She put on some more coal, unfolded the clothes-horse, and extended the traveller s coat upon this. "And they goggles! Why, he looked more like a divin helmet than a human man!" She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. "And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talkin through it! ... Perhaps his mouth was hurt too maybe." She turned round, as one who suddenly remembers. "Bless my soul alive!" she said, going off at a tangent; "ain t you done them taters _yet_, Millie?" When Mrs. Hall went to clear away the stranger s lunch, her idea that his mouth must also have been cut or disfigured in the accident she supposed him to have suffered, was confirmed, for he was smoking a pipe, and all the time that she was in the room he never loosened the silk muffler he had wrapped round the lower part of his face to put the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it was not forgetfulness, for she saw he glanced at it as it smouldered out. He sat in the corner with his back to the window-blind and spoke now, having eaten and drunk and being comfortably warmed through, with less aggressive brevity than before. The reflection of the fire lent a kind of red animation to his big spectacles they had lacked hitherto. "I have some luggage," he said, "at Bramblehurst station," and he asked her how he could have it sent. He bowed his bandaged head quite politely in acknowledgment of her explanation. "To-morrow?" he said. "There is no speedier delivery?" and seemed quite disappointed when she answered, "No." Was she quite sure? No man with a trap who would go over? Mrs. Hall, nothing loath, answered his questions and developed a conversation. "It s a steep road by the down, sir," she said in answer to the question about a trap; and then, snatching at an opening, said, "It was there a carriage was upsettled, a year ago and more. A gentleman killed, besides his coachman. Accidents, sir, happen in a moment, don t they?" But the visitor was not to be drawn so easily. "They do," he said through his muffler, eyeing her quietly through his impenetrable glasses. "But they take long enough to get well, don t they? ... There was my sister s son, Tom, jest cut his arm with a scythe, tumbled on it in the ayfield, and, bless me! he was three months tied up sir. You d hardly believe it. It s regular given me a dread of a scythe, sir." "I can quite understand that," said the visitor. "He was afraid, one time, that he d have to have an op ration he was that bad, sir." The visitor laughed abruptly, a bark of a laugh that he seemed to bite and kill in his mouth. "_Was_ he?" he said. "He was, sir. And no laughing matter to them as had the doing for him, as I had my sister being took up with her little ones so much. There was bandages | The Invisible Man |
"There's just one thing," | Piglet | so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. | will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher | tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is | Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, | had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" | about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together. "What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we--you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me--and suddenly----" "And Eeyore," said Pooh. "And Eeyore--and then suddenly----" "And Owl," said Pooh. "And Owl--and then all of a sudden----" "Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting _him_." "Here--we--are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, "all--of--us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning and, what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we have never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh, who had been frowning very hard for some minutes, said: "_I_ make it fifteen." "What?" said Rabbit. "Fifteen." "Fifteen what?" "Your family." "What about them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way | snuffling to himself. "It's a Useful Pot," said Pooh. "Here it is. And it's got 'A Very Happy Birthday with love from Pooh' written on it. That's what all that writing is. And it's for putting things in. There!" When Eeyore saw the pot, he became quite excited. "Why!" he said. "I believe my Balloon will just go into that Pot!" "Oh, no, Eeyore," said Pooh. "Balloons are much too big to go into Pots. What you do with a balloon is, you hold the ballon----" "Not mine," said Eeyore proudly. "Look, Piglet!" And as Piglet looked sorrowfully round, Eeyore picked the balloon up with his teeth, and placed it carefully in the pot; picked it out and put it on the ground; and then picked it up again and put it carefully back. "So it does!" said Pooh. "It goes in!" "So it does!" said Piglet. "And it comes out!" "Doesn't it?" said Eeyore. "It goes in and out like anything." "I'm very glad," said Pooh happily, "that I thought of giving you a Useful Pot to put things in." "I'm very glad," said Piglet happily, "that I thought of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot." But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * "And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. "Of course you did," I said. "You gave him--don't you remember--a little--a little----" "I gave him a box of paints to paint things with." "That was it." "Why didn't I give it to him in the morning?" "You were so busy getting his party ready for him. He had a cake with icing on the top, and three candles, and his name in pink sugar, and----" "Yes, _I_ remember," said Christopher Robin. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH KANGA AND BABY ROO COME TO THE FOREST, AND PIGLET HAS A BATH Nobody seemed to know where they came from, but there they were in the Forest: Kanga and Baby Roo. When Pooh asked Christopher Robin, "How did they come here?" Christopher Robin said, "In the Usual Way, if you know what I mean, Pooh," and Pooh, who didn't, said "Oh!" Then he nodded his head twice and said, "In the Usual Way. Ah!" Then he went to call upon his friend Piglet to see what _he_ thought about it. And at Piglet's house he found Rabbit. So they all talked about it together. "What I don't like about it is this," said Rabbit. "Here are we--you, Pooh, and you, Piglet, and Me--and suddenly----" "And Eeyore," said Pooh. "And Eeyore--and then suddenly----" "And Owl," said Pooh. "And Owl--and then all of a sudden----" "Oh, and Eeyore," said Pooh. "I was forgetting _him_." "Here--we--are," said Rabbit very slowly and carefully, "all--of--us, and then, suddenly, we wake up one morning and, what do we find? We find a Strange Animal among us. An animal of whom we have never even heard before! An animal who carries her family about with her in her pocket! Suppose _I_ carried _my_ family about with me in _my_ pocket, how many pockets should I want?" "Sixteen," said Piglet. "Seventeen, isn't it?" said Rabbit. "And one more for a handkerchief--that's eighteen. Eighteen pockets in one suit! I haven't time." There was a long and thoughtful silence ... and then Pooh, who had been frowning very hard for some minutes, said: "_I_ make it fifteen." "What?" said Rabbit. "Fifteen." "Fifteen what?" "Your family." "What about them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. _General Remarks._ Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. 2. _More General Remarks._ Kanga never takes her eye off Baby Roo, except when he's safely buttoned up in her pocket. 3. _Therefore._ If we are to capture Baby Roo, we must get a Long Start, because Kanga runs faster than any of Us, even Me. (_See_ 1.) 4. _A Thought._ If Roo had jumped out of Kanga's pocket and Piglet had jumped in, Kanga wouldn't know the difference, because Piglet is a Very Small Animal. 5. Like Roo. 6. But Kanga would have to be looking the other way first, so as not to see Piglet jumping in. 7. See 2. 8. _Another Thought._ But if Pooh was 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 | them?" Pooh rubbed his nose and said that he thought Rabbit had been talking about his family. "Did I?" said Rabbit carelessly. "Yes, you said----" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet impatiently. "The question is, What are we to do about Kanga?" "Oh, I see," said Pooh. "The best way," said Rabbit, "would be this. The best way would be to steal Baby Roo and hide him, and then when Kanga says, 'Where's Baby Roo?' we say, '_Aha!_'" "_Aha!_" said Pooh, practising. "_Aha! Aha!_ ... Of course," he went on, "we could say 'Aha!' even if we hadn't stolen Baby Roo." "Pooh," said Rabbit kindly, "you haven't any brain." "I know," said Pooh humbly. "We say '_Aha!_' so that Kanga knows that _we_ know where Baby Roo is. '_Aha!_' means 'We'll tell you where Baby Roo is, if you promise to go away from the Forest and never come back.' Now don't talk while I think." Pooh went into a corner and tried saying 'Aha!' in that sort of voice. Sometimes it seemed to him that it did mean what Rabbit said, and sometimes it seemed to him that it didn't. "I suppose it's just practice," he thought. "I wonder if Kanga will have to practise too so as to understand it."<|quote|>"There's just one thing,"</|quote|>said Piglet, fidgeting a bit. "I was talking to Christopher Robin, and he said that a Kanga was Generally Regarded as One of the Fiercer Animals. I am not frightened of Fierce Animals in the ordinary way, but it is well known that, if One of the Fiercer Animals is Deprived of Its Young, it becomes as fierce as Two of the Fiercer Animals. In which case '_Aha!_' is perhaps a _foolish_ thing to say." "Piglet," said Rabbit, taking out a pencil, and licking the end of it, "you haven't any pluck." "It is hard to be brave," said Piglet, sniffing slightly, "when you're only a Very Small Animal." Rabbit, who had begun to write very busily, looked up and said: "It is because you are a very small animal that you will be Useful in the adventure before us." Piglet was so excited at the idea of being Useful, that he forgot to be frightened any more, and when Rabbit went on to say that Kangas were only Fierce during the winter months, being at other times of an Affectionate Disposition, he could hardly sit still, he was so eager to begin being useful at once. "What about me?" said Pooh sadly. "I suppose _I_ shan't be useful?" "Never mind, Pooh," said Piglet comfortingly. "Another time perhaps." "Without Pooh," said Rabbit solemnly as he sharpened his pencil, "the adventure would be impossible." "Oh!" said Piglet, and tried not to look disappointed. But Pooh went into a corner of the room and said proudly to himself, "Impossible without Me! _That_ sort of Bear." "Now listen all of you," said Rabbit when he had finished writing, and Pooh and Piglet sat listening very eagerly with their mouths open. This was what Rabbit read out: PLAN TO CAPTURE BABY ROO 1. | Winnie The Pooh |
"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it." | Don Lavington | as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish | little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which | and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don | "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and | too bad, Laura, and--" He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's remark and its angry tone to make him writhe. "Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window. The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily. "Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat | no use to try," he said to himself; and the meal passed off very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present. "I'm very sorry, Laura," said her brother, as soon as Don had left the room; "and I don't know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide." "Try and be patient with him, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington pleadingly. "He is very young yet." "Patient? I'm afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed it, Don would make him quite a companion." "But, Josiah--" "There, don't look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a father's part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time." "Oh, yes," cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. "He's a true-hearted, brave boy; don't try to crush him down." "Crush him, nonsense!" cried the merchant, angrily. "You really are too bad, Laura, and--" He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's remark and its angry tone to make him writhe. "Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window. The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily. "Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something." "Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that `good deal' was." Don shook his head. "There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy." "I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly. "You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true." "But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily. "You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but | frame of mind, Don had gone home to find that the tea was ready, and that he was being treated as a laggard. "Come, Lindon," said his uncle quietly, "you have kept us waiting some time." The lad glanced quickly round the well-furnished room, bright with curiosities brought in many a voyage from the west, and with the poison of Mike's words still at work, he wondered how much of what he saw rightfully belonged to him. The next moment his eyes lit on the soft sweet troubled face of his mother, full of appeal and reproach, and it seemed to Don that his uncle had been upsetting her by an account of his delinquencies. "It's top bad, and I don't deserve it," he said to himself. "Everything seems to go wrong now. Well, what are you looking at?" he added, to himself, as he took his seat and stared across at his cousin, the playmate of many years, whose quiet little womanly face seemed to repeat her father's grave, reproachful look, but who, as it were, snatched her eyes away as soon as she met his gaze. "They all hate me," thought Don, who was in that unhappy stage of a boy's life when help is so much needed to keep him from turning down one of the dark side lanes of the great main route. "Been for a walk, Don?" said his mother with a tender look. "No, mother, I only stopped back in the yard a little while." His uncle set down his cup sharply. "You have not been keeping that scoundrel Bannock?" he cried. "No, sir; I've been talking to Jem." "Ho!" ejaculated the old merchant. "That's better. But you might have come straight home." Don's eyes encountered his Cousin Kitty's just then, as she gave her head a shake to throw back the brown curls which clustered about her white forehead. She turned her gaze upon her plate, and he could see that she was frowning. "Yes," thought Don, "they all dislike me, and I'm only a worry and trouble to my mother. I wish I was far away--anywhere." He went on with his tea moodily and in silence, paying no heed to the reproachful glances of his mother's eyes, which seemed to him to say, and with some reason, "Don't be sulky, Don, my boy; try and behave as I could wish." "It's of no use to try," he said to himself; and the meal passed off very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present. "I'm very sorry, Laura," said her brother, as soon as Don had left the room; "and I don't know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide." "Try and be patient with him, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington pleadingly. "He is very young yet." "Patient? I'm afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed it, Don would make him quite a companion." "But, Josiah--" "There, don't look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a father's part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time." "Oh, yes," cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. "He's a true-hearted, brave boy; don't try to crush him down." "Crush him, nonsense!" cried the merchant, angrily. "You really are too bad, Laura, and--" He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's remark and its angry tone to make him writhe. "Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window. The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily. "Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something." "Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that `good deal' was." Don shook his head. "There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy." "I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly. "You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true." "But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily. "You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's life seemed darker than ever. "She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily, as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again." Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on thinking of many things, to fall into a state of unconsciousness at last, from which he awoke to the fact that it was day--a very eventful day for him, but he did not awaken to the fact that he was very blind. CHAPTER THREE. AN AWKWARD GUINEA. It was a busy day at the yard, for a part of the lading of a sugar ship was being stored away in Uncle Josiah's warehouses; but from the very commencement matters seemed to go wrong, and the state of affairs about ten o'clock was pretty ably expressed by Jem Wimble, who came up to Don as he was busy with pencil and book, keeping account of the deliveries, and said in a loud voice,-- "What did your uncle have for breakfast, Mas' Don?" "Coffee--ham--I hardly know, Jem." "Ho! Thought p'r'aps it had been cayenne pepper." "Nonsense!" "Ah, you may say that, but see how he is going it. 'Tarn't my fault that the dock men work so badly, and 'tarn't my fault that Mike isn't here, and--" "Don't stand talking to Wimble, Lindon," said a voice sharply, and Uncle Josiah came up to the pair. "No, don't go away, Wimble. Did Bannock say he should stay away to-day?" "Not to me, uncle." "Nor to me, sir." "It's very strange, just as we are so busy too. He has not drawn any money." "P'r'aps press-gang's got him, sir," suggested Jem. "Humph! Hardly likely!" said Uncle Josiah; and he went on and entered the office, to come out at the end of a few minutes and beckon to Don. "Lindon," he said, as the lad joined him, "I left nine guineas and a half in the little mahogany bowl in my desk yesterday. Whom have you paid?" "Paid? No one, sir." "But eight guineas are gone--missing." "Eight guineas? Missing, sir?" "Yes, do you know anything about them?" "No, sir. I--that | use to try," he said to himself; and the meal passed off very silently, and with a cold chill on every one present. "I'm very sorry, Laura," said her brother, as soon as Don had left the room; "and I don't know what to do for the best. I hate finding fault and scolding, but if the boy is in the wrong I must chide." "Try and be patient with him, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington pleadingly. "He is very young yet." "Patient? I'm afraid I have been too patient. That scoundrel at the yard has unsettled him with his wild tales of the sea; and if I allowed it, Don would make him quite a companion." "But, Josiah--" "There, don't look like that, my dear. I promised you I would play a father's part to the boy, and I will; but you must not expect me to be a weak indulgent father, and spoil him with foolish lenity. There, enough for one day. I daresay we shall get all right in time." "Oh, yes," cried Mrs Lavington, earnestly. "He's a true-hearted, brave boy; don't try to crush him down." "Crush him, nonsense!" cried the merchant, angrily. "You really are too bad, Laura, and--" He stopped, for just then Don re-entered the room to flush up angrily as he saw his mother in tears; and he had heard enough of his uncle's remark and its angry tone to make him writhe. "Ill using her now," he said to himself, as he set his teeth and walked to the window. The closing of the door made him start round quickly, to find that his mother was close behind him, and his uncle gone. "What has Uncle Jos been saying to you, mother?" he cried angrily. "Nothing--nothing particular, my boy," she faltered. "He has," cried Don fiercely; "and I won't have it. He may scold and abuse me as much as he likes, but I will not have him ill use you." "Ill use me, Don?" cried Mrs Lavington. "Nonsense, my dear boy. Your uncle is all that is kind and good; and he loves you very dearly, Don, if you could only try--try a little more, my dear boy, to do what he likes, and please him." "I do try, mother, but it's no good." "Don't say that, Don. Try a little harder--for my sake, dear, as well as your own."<|quote|>"I have tried, I am always trying, and it's of no use. Nothing pleases uncle, and the men in the yard know it."</|quote|>"Don, my boy, what foolish obstinate fit is this which has come over you?" said Mrs Lavington tenderly. "I'm not obstinate," he said sullenly; "only unhappy." "Is it not your own fault, my darling?" she whispered; "believe me, your uncle is one of the kindest and best of men." Don shook his head. "Are you going to prefer the opinion of the men of the yard to mine, dear?" "No, mother, but uncle is your brother, and you believe in him and defend him. You know how harsh and unkind he is to me." "Not unkind, Don, only firm and for your good. Now come, my boy, do, for my sake, try to drive away these clouds, and let us all be happy once more." "It's of no use to try, mother; I shall never be happy here, tied down to a desk. It's like being uncle's slave." "What am I to say to you, Don, if you talk like this?" said Mrs Lavington. "Believe me you are wrong, and some day you will own it. You will see what a mistaken view you have taken of your uncle's treatment. There, I shall say no more now." "You always treat me as if I were a child," said Don, bitterly. "I'm seventeen now, mother, and I ought to know something." "Yes, my boy," said Mrs Lavington gently; "at seventeen we think we know a good deal; and at forty we smile as we look back and see what a very little that `good deal' was." Don shook his head. "There, we will have no more sad looks. Uncle is eager to do all he can to make us happy." "I wish I could think so," cried Don, bitterly. "You may, my dear. And now, come, try and throw aside all those fanciful notions about going abroad and meeting with adventures. There is no place like home, Don, and you will find out some day that is true." "But I have no home till I make one," said the lad gloomily. "You have an excellent home here, Don, the gift of one who has kindly taken the place toward you of your father. There, I will listen to no more from you, for this is all foolish fighting of your worse against your better self." There was a quiet dignity in his mother's words which awed Don for the moment, but the gentle embrace given the next minute seemed to undo that which the firmness had achieved, and that night the cloud over the lad's life seemed darker than ever. "She takes uncle's side and thinks he is everything," he said gloomily, as he went to bed. "She means right, but she is wrong. Oh, how I wish I could go right away somewhere and begin life all over again." Then he lay down to sleep, but slumber did not come, so he went on | Don Lavington |
"Of course you can t tell him that," | Mary Datchet | reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I | him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said | discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it | either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s | up the street in the direction of the main road. "Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome | anything to say, he put it back again, although he would have been glad if she had stayed. Against her wish, Mary insisted upon taking her downstairs, and then, as there was no cab to be seen, they stood in the street together, looking about them. "Go back," Katharine urged her, thinking of Mr. Basnett with his papers in his hand. "You can t wander about the streets alone in those clothes," said Mary, but the desire to find a cab was not her true reason for standing beside Katharine for a minute or two. Unfortunately for her composure, Mr. Basnett and his papers seemed to her an incidental diversion of life s serious purpose compared with some tremendous fact which manifested itself as she stood alone with Katharine. It may have been their common womanhood. "Have you seen Ralph?" she asked suddenly, without preface. "Yes," said Katharine directly, but she did not remember when or where she had seen him. It took her a moment or two to remember why Mary should ask her if she had seen Ralph. "I believe I m jealous," said Mary. "Nonsense, Mary," said Katharine, rather distractedly, taking her arm and beginning to walk up the street in the direction of the main road. "Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added, "I expect you do." At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down | remember the Press and the public. Other societies, which shall be nameless, have gone under because they ve appealed only to cranks. If you don t want a mutual admiration society, which dies as soon as you ve all discovered each other s faults, you must nobble the Press. You must appeal to the public." "That s the difficulty," said Mary thoughtfully. "That s where she comes in," said Mr. Basnett, jerking his head in Mary s direction. "She s the only one of us who s a capitalist. She can make a whole-time job of it. I m tied to an office; I can only give my spare time. Are you, by any chance, on the look-out for a job?" he asked Katharine, with a queer mixture of distrust and deference. "Marriage is her job at present," Mary replied for her. "Oh, I see," said Mr. Basnett. He made allowances for that; he and his friends had faced the question of sex, along with all others, and assigned it an honorable place in their scheme of life. Katharine felt this beneath the roughness of his manner; and a world entrusted to the guardianship of Mary Datchet and Mr. Basnett seemed to her a good world, although not a romantic or beautiful place or, to put it figuratively, a place where any line of blue mist softly linked tree to tree upon the horizon. For a moment she thought she saw in his face, bent now over the fire, the features of that original man whom we still recall every now and then, although we know only the clerk, barrister, Governmental official, or workingman variety of him. Not that Mr. Basnett, giving his days to commerce and his spare time to social reform, would long carry about him any trace of his possibilities of completeness; but, for the moment, in his youth and ardor, still speculative, still uncramped, one might imagine him the citizen of a nobler state than ours. Katharine turned over her small stock of information, and wondered what their society might be going to attempt. Then she remembered that she was hindering their business, and rose, still thinking of this society, and thus thinking, she said to Mr. Basnett: "Well, you ll ask me to join when the time comes, I hope." He nodded, and took his pipe from his mouth, but, being unable to think of anything to say, he put it back again, although he would have been glad if she had stayed. Against her wish, Mary insisted upon taking her downstairs, and then, as there was no cab to be seen, they stood in the street together, looking about them. "Go back," Katharine urged her, thinking of Mr. Basnett with his papers in his hand. "You can t wander about the streets alone in those clothes," said Mary, but the desire to find a cab was not her true reason for standing beside Katharine for a minute or two. Unfortunately for her composure, Mr. Basnett and his papers seemed to her an incidental diversion of life s serious purpose compared with some tremendous fact which manifested itself as she stood alone with Katharine. It may have been their common womanhood. "Have you seen Ralph?" she asked suddenly, without preface. "Yes," said Katharine directly, but she did not remember when or where she had seen him. It took her a moment or two to remember why Mary should ask her if she had seen Ralph. "I believe I m jealous," said Mary. "Nonsense, Mary," said Katharine, rather distractedly, taking her arm and beginning to walk up the street in the direction of the main road. "Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added, "I expect you do." At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both looked at it and waited for a moment. A flight of semicircular steps ran up to the hall, and Mary slowly mounted the first two or three, and paused, looking down upon Katharine. "I think you underrate the value of that emotion," she said slowly, and a little awkwardly. She climbed another step and looked down once more upon the figure that was only partly lit up, standing in the street with a colorless face turned upwards. As Mary hesitated, a cab came by and Katharine turned and stopped it, saying as she opened the door: "Remember, I want to belong to your society remember," she added, having to raise her voice a little, and shutting the door upon the rest of her words. Mary mounted the stairs step by step, as if she had to lift her body up an extremely steep ascent. She had had to wrench herself forcibly away from Katharine, and every step vanquished her desire. She held on grimly, encouraging herself as though she were actually making some great physical effort in climbing a height. She was conscious that Mr. Basnett, sitting at the top of the stairs with his documents, offered her solid footing if she were capable of reaching it. The knowledge gave her a faint sense of exaltation. Mr. Basnett raised his eyes as she opened the door. "I ll go on where I left off," he said. "Stop me if you want anything explained." He had been re-reading the document, and making pencil notes in the margin while he waited, and he went on again as if there had been no interruption. Mary sat down among the flat cushions, lit another cigarette, and listened with a frown upon her face. Katharine leant back in the corner of the cab that carried her to Chelsea, conscious of fatigue, and conscious, too, of the sober and satisfactory nature of such industry as she had just witnessed. The thought of it composed and calmed her. When she reached home she let herself in as quietly as she could, in the hope that the household was already gone to bed. But her excursion had occupied less time than she thought, and she heard sounds of unmistakable liveliness upstairs. A door opened, and she drew herself into a ground-floor room in case the sound meant that Mr. Peyton were taking his leave. From where she stood she could see the stairs, though she was herself invisible. Some one was coming down the stairs, and now she saw that it was William Rodney. He looked a little strange, as if he were walking in his sleep; his lips moved as if he were acting some part to himself. He came down very slowly, | giving his days to commerce and his spare time to social reform, would long carry about him any trace of his possibilities of completeness; but, for the moment, in his youth and ardor, still speculative, still uncramped, one might imagine him the citizen of a nobler state than ours. Katharine turned over her small stock of information, and wondered what their society might be going to attempt. Then she remembered that she was hindering their business, and rose, still thinking of this society, and thus thinking, she said to Mr. Basnett: "Well, you ll ask me to join when the time comes, I hope." He nodded, and took his pipe from his mouth, but, being unable to think of anything to say, he put it back again, although he would have been glad if she had stayed. Against her wish, Mary insisted upon taking her downstairs, and then, as there was no cab to be seen, they stood in the street together, looking about them. "Go back," Katharine urged her, thinking of Mr. Basnett with his papers in his hand. "You can t wander about the streets alone in those clothes," said Mary, but the desire to find a cab was not her true reason for standing beside Katharine for a minute or two. Unfortunately for her composure, Mr. Basnett and his papers seemed to her an incidental diversion of life s serious purpose compared with some tremendous fact which manifested itself as she stood alone with Katharine. It may have been their common womanhood. "Have you seen Ralph?" she asked suddenly, without preface. "Yes," said Katharine directly, but she did not remember when or where she had seen him. It took her a moment or two to remember why Mary should ask her if she had seen Ralph. "I believe I m jealous," said Mary. "Nonsense, Mary," said Katharine, rather distractedly, taking her arm and beginning to walk up the street in the direction of the main road. "Let me see; we went to Kew, and we agreed to be friends. Yes, that s what happened." Mary was silent, in the hope that Katharine would tell her more. But Katharine said nothing. "It s not a question of friendship," Mary exclaimed, her anger rising, to her own surprise. "You know it s not. How can it be? I ve no right to interfere" She stopped. "Only I d rather Ralph wasn t hurt," she concluded. "I think he seems able to take care of himself," Katharine observed. Without either of them wishing it, a feeling of hostility had risen between them. "Do you really think it s worth it?" said Mary, after a pause. "How can one tell?" Katharine asked. "Have you ever cared for any one?" Mary demanded rashly and foolishly. "I can t wander about London discussing my feelings Here s a cab no, there s some one in it." "We don t want to quarrel," said Mary. "Ought I to have told him that I wouldn t be his friend?" Katharine asked. "Shall I tell him that? If so, what reason shall I give him?"<|quote|>"Of course you can t tell him that,"</|quote|>said Mary, controlling herself. "I believe I shall, though," said Katharine suddenly. "I lost my temper, Katharine; I shouldn t have said what I did." "The whole thing s foolish," said Katharine, peremptorily. "That s what I say. It s not worth it." She spoke with unnecessary vehemence, but it was not directed against Mary Datchet. Their animosity had completely disappeared, and upon both of them a cloud of difficulty and darkness rested, obscuring the future, in which they had both to find a way. "No, no, it s not worth it," Katharine repeated. "Suppose, as you say, it s out of the question this friendship; he falls in love with me. I don t want that. Still," she added, "I believe you exaggerate; love s not everything; marriage itself is only one of the things" They had reached the main thoroughfare, and stood looking at the omnibuses and passers-by, who seemed, for the moment, to illustrate what Katharine had said of the diversity of human interests. For both of them it had become one of those moments of extreme detachment, when it seems unnecessary ever again to shoulder the burden of happiness and self-assertive existence. Their neighbors were welcome to their possessions. "I don t lay down any rules," said Mary, recovering herself first, as they turned after a long pause of this description. "All I say is that you should know what you re about for certain; but," she added, "I expect you do." At the same time she was profoundly perplexed, not only by what she knew of the arrangements for Katharine s marriage, but by the impression which she had of her, there on her arm, dark and inscrutable. They walked back again and reached the steps which led up to Mary s flat. Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing. "You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." She glanced up at the lighted window near the top of the house, and they both | Night And Day |
"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies." | Lord Fermor | hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered | he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that | a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. | pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington | and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. "The betting is on the Americans." "They don t | nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. "The betting is on the Americans." "They don t last, I am told," muttered his uncle. "A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don t think Dartmoor has a chance." "Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?" Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said, rising to go. "They are pork-packers, I suppose?" "I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics." "Is she pretty?" "She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm." "Why can t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women." "It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my | been his father s secretary, had resigned along with his chief, somewhat foolishly as was thought at the time, and on succeeding some months later to the title, had set himself to the serious study of the great aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large town houses, but preferred to live in chambers as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at his club. He paid some attention to the management of his collieries in the Midland counties, excusing himself for this taint of industry on the ground that the one advantage of having coal was that it enabled a gentleman to afford the decency of burning wood on his own hearth. In politics he was a Tory, except when the Tories were in office, during which period he roundly abused them for being a pack of Radicals. He was a hero to his valet, who bullied him, and a terror to most of his relations, whom he bullied in turn. Only England could have produced him, and he always said that the country was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices. When Lord Henry entered the room, he found his uncle sitting in a rough shooting-coat, smoking a cheroot and grumbling over _The Times_. "Well, Harry," said the old gentleman, "what brings you out so early? I thought you dandies never got up till two, and were not visible till five." "Pure family affection, I assure you, Uncle George. I want to get something out of you." "Money, I suppose," said Lord Fermor, making a wry face. "Well, sit down and tell me all about it. Young people, nowadays, imagine that money is everything." "Yes," murmured Lord Henry, settling his button-hole in his coat; "and when they grow older they know it. But I don t want money. It is only people who pay their bills who want that, Uncle George, and I never pay mine. Credit is the capital of a younger son, and one lives charmingly upon it. Besides, I always deal with Dartmoor s tradesmen, and consequently they never bother me. What I want is information: not useful information, of course; useless information." "Well, I can tell you anything that is in an English Blue Book, Harry, although those fellows nowadays write a lot of nonsense. When I was in the Diplomatic, things were much better. But I hear they let them in now by examination. What can you expect? Examinations, sir, are pure humbug from beginning to end. If a man is a gentleman, he knows quite enough, and if he is not a gentleman, whatever he knows is bad for him." "Mr. Dorian Gray does not belong to Blue Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. "The betting is on the Americans." "They don t last, I am told," muttered his uncle. "A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don t think Dartmoor has a chance." "Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?" Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said, rising to go. "They are pork-packers, I suppose?" "I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics." "Is she pretty?" "She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm." "Why can t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women." "It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones." "Where are you lunching, Harry?" "At Aunt Agatha s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest _prot g _." "Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads." "All right, Uncle George, I ll tell her, but it won t have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic." The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. So that was the story of Dorian Gray s parentage. Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance. A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion. A few wild weeks of happiness cut short by a hideous, treacherous crime. Months of voiceless agony, and then a child born in pain. The mother snatched away by death, the boy left to solitude and the tyranny of an old and loveless man. Yes; it was an interesting background. It posed the lad, made him more perfect, as it were. Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Worlds had to be in travail, that the meanest flower might blow.... And how charming he had been at dinner the night before, as with startled eyes and lips parted in frightened pleasure he had sat opposite to him at the club, the red candleshades staining to a richer rose the wakening wonder of his face. Talking to him was like playing upon an exquisite violin. He answered to every touch and thrill of the bow.... There was something terribly enthralling in the exercise of influence. No other activity was like it. To project one s soul into some gracious form, and let it tarry there for a moment; to hear one s own intellectual views echoed back to one with all the added music of passion and youth; to convey one s temperament into another as though it were a subtle fluid or a strange perfume: there was a real joy in that perhaps the most satisfying joy left to us in an | Books, Uncle George," said Lord Henry languidly. "Mr. Dorian Gray? Who is he?" asked Lord Fermor, knitting his bushy white eyebrows. "That is what I have come to learn, Uncle George. Or rather, I know who he is. He is the last Lord Kelso s grandson. His mother was a Devereux, Lady Margaret Devereux. I want you to tell me about his mother. What was she like? Whom did she marry? You have known nearly everybody in your time, so you might have known her. I am very much interested in Mr. Gray at present. I have only just met him." "Kelso s grandson!" echoed the old gentleman. "Kelso s grandson! ... Of course.... I knew his mother intimately. I believe I was at her christening. She was an extraordinarily beautiful girl, Margaret Devereux, and made all the men frantic by running away with a penniless young fellow a mere nobody, sir, a subaltern in a foot regiment, or something of that kind. Certainly. I remember the whole thing as if it happened yesterday. The poor chap was killed in a duel at Spa a few months after the marriage. There was an ugly story about it. They said Kelso got some rascally adventurer, some Belgian brute, to insult his son-in-law in public paid him, sir, to do it, paid him and that the fellow spitted his man as if he had been a pigeon. The thing was hushed up, but, egad, Kelso ate his chop alone at the club for some time afterwards. He brought his daughter back with him, I was told, and she never spoke to him again. Oh, yes; it was a bad business. The girl died, too, died within a year. So she left a son, did she? I had forgotten that. What sort of boy is he? If he is like his mother, he must be a good-looking chap." "He is very good-looking," assented Lord Henry. "I hope he will fall into proper hands," continued the old man.<|quote|>"He should have a pot of money waiting for him if Kelso did the right thing by him. His mother had money, too. All the Selby property came to her, through her grandfather. Her grandfather hated Kelso, thought him a mean dog. He was, too. Came to Madrid once when I was there. Egad, I was ashamed of him. The Queen used to ask me about the English noble who was always quarrelling with the cabmen about their fares. They made quite a story of it. I didn t dare show my face at Court for a month. I hope he treated his grandson better than he did the jarvies."</|quote|>"I don t know," answered Lord Henry. "I fancy that the boy will be well off. He is not of age yet. He has Selby, I know. He told me so. And ... his mother was very beautiful?" "Margaret Devereux was one of the loveliest creatures I ever saw, Harry. What on earth induced her to behave as she did, I never could understand. She could have married anybody she chose. Carlington was mad after her. She was romantic, though. All the women of that family were. The men were a poor lot, but, egad! the women were wonderful. Carlington went on his knees to her. Told me so himself. She laughed at him, and there wasn t a girl in London at the time who wasn t after him. And by the way, Harry, talking about silly marriages, what is this humbug your father tells me about Dartmoor wanting to marry an American? Ain t English girls good enough for him?" "It is rather fashionable to marry Americans just now, Uncle George." "I ll back English women against the world, Harry," said Lord Fermor, striking the table with his fist. "The betting is on the Americans." "They don t last, I am told," muttered his uncle. "A long engagement exhausts them, but they are capital at a steeplechase. They take things flying. I don t think Dartmoor has a chance." "Who are her people?" grumbled the old gentleman. "Has she got any?" Lord Henry shook his head. "American girls are as clever at concealing their parents, as English women are at concealing their past," he said, rising to go. "They are pork-packers, I suppose?" "I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative profession in America, after politics." "Is she pretty?" "She behaves as if she was beautiful. Most American women do. It is the secret of their charm." "Why can t these American women stay in their own country? They are always telling us that it is the paradise for women." "It is. That is the reason why, like Eve, they are so excessively anxious to get out of it," said Lord Henry. "Good-bye, Uncle George. I shall be late for lunch, if I stop any longer. Thanks for giving me the information I wanted. I always like to know everything about my new friends, and nothing about my old ones." "Where are you lunching, Harry?" "At Aunt Agatha s. I have asked myself and Mr. Gray. He is her latest _prot g _." "Humph! tell your Aunt Agatha, Harry, not to bother me any more with her charity appeals. I am sick of them. Why, the good woman thinks that I have nothing to do but to write cheques for her silly fads." "All right, Uncle George, I ll tell her, but it won t have any effect. Philanthropic people lose all sense of humanity. It is their distinguishing characteristic." The old gentleman growled approvingly and rang the bell for his servant. Lord Henry passed up the low arcade into Burlington Street and turned his steps in the direction of Berkeley Square. So that was | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
said he. | No speaker | got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that | I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to | to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer | the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s | off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the | lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?" he asked. "No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out | into the room?" "Yes, the ally!" repeated Holmes, pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of the commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh ground in the annals of crime in this country, though parallel cases suggest themselves from India, and, if my memory serves me, from Senegambia." "How came he, then?" I reiterated. "The door is locked, the window is inaccessible. Was it through the chimney?" "The grate is much too small," he answered. "I had already considered that possibility." "How then?" I persisted. "You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible whatever remains, _however improbable_, must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window, or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room, as there is no concealment possible. Whence, then, did he come?" "He came through the hole in the roof," I cried. "Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above, the secret room in which the treasure was found." He mounted the steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for the lamp and held it while I followed him. The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath-and-plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex, and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of the house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine the thorn." I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lantern. It was long, sharp, and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance had dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife. "Is that an English thorn?" he asked. "No, it certainly is not." "With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars; so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat." As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, and a very stout, portly man in a grey suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform, and by the still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto. "Here s a business!" he cried, in a muffled, husky voice. "Here s a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!" "I think you must recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes, quietly. "Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It s true you set us on the right track; but you ll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance." "It was a piece of very simple reasoning." "Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here, no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d you think the man died of?" "Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorise over," said Holmes, dryly. "No, no. Still, we can t deny that you hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How was the window?" "Fastened; but there are steps on the sill." "Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with the matter. That s common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. Just step outside, sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure. How s that?" "On which the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door on the inside." "Hum! There s a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto _was_ with his brother; there _was_ a quarrel; so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. So much also we know. No one saw the | the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor. "Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against the sloping wall. "This is a trap-door which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle. This, then, is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find any other traces of his individuality." He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for the second time that night a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself, as I followed his gaze my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot, clear, well defined, perfectly formed, but scarce half the size of those of an ordinary man. "Holmes," I said, in a whisper, "a child has done the horrid thing." He had recovered his self-possession in an instant. "I was staggered for the moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down." "What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." "I cannot conceive anything which will cover the facts," I answered. "It will be clear enough to you soon," he said, in an off-hand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look." He whipped out his lens and a tape measure, and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his long thin nose only a few inches from the planks, and his beady eyes gleaming and deep-set like those of a bird. So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained blood-hound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law, instead of exerting them in its defence. As he hunted about, he kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud crow of delight. "We are certainly in luck," said he. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One has had the misfortune to tread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The carboy has been cracked, You see, and the stuff has leaked out." "What then?" I asked. "Why, we have got him, that s all,"<|quote|>said he.</|quote|>"I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world s end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially-trained hound follow so pungent a smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the But halloa! here are the accredited representatives of the law." Heavy steps and the clamour of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash. "Before they come," said Holmes, "just put your hand here on this poor fellow s arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?" "The muscles are as hard as a board," I answered. "Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual _rigor mortis_. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or _risus sardonicus_, as the old writers called it, what conclusion would it suggest to your mind?" "Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid," I answered, "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus." "That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would | The Sign Of The Four |
"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--" | Madge | said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece | key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." | packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, | impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants | about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly. "Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents | up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly. "Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said | most finished young person received her. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?" Followed by: "Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes," Where s auntie? "I say," Need you ask? She s at Howards End. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?" Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in the eyes of Miss Avery s niece. "I cannot let you go on alone. Now don t. You really mustn t. I will direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now" "--roguishly--" "Mrs. Wilcox, don t you move while I m gone." Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect--connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery s niece, and were so tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly. "Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is Mrs. Wilcox s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer." To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox s house, the mother of Mr. Charles." "Mistake upon mistake," said Miss Avery. "Mistake upon mistake." "Well, I don t know," said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. "I really don t know what s to be done." She could not help laughing. The other said: "Yes, it should be a merry house enough." "I don t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that s all right. Delightful." "There is still the parlour." She went through the door opposite and drew a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. "And the dining-room." More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung open to the spring. "Then through here--" Miss Avery continued passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. "I ve not finished here yet," she announced, returning. "There s still a deal to do. The farm lads will carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into expense at Hilton." "It is all a mistake," repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot down. "A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards End." "Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?" "We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this furniture--my part--will go down there presently." She looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious nobility. "You think that you won t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will." "That remains to be seen," said Margaret, smiling. "We have no intention of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day--one never knows, does one?" Miss Avery retorted: "Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don t talk about some day. You are living here now." "Am I?" "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 | was rising, scattering the straw and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over Evie s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. "Georgie," sang the thrush. "Cuckoo," came furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. "Georgie, pretty Georgie," and the other birds joined in with nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and the zephyr behind. The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. Petulant cries of "Auntie!" severed the air. There was no reply, and the front door was locked. "Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?" asked Margaret. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily." Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she succeeded. "Well, well!" replied some one inside the house. "If it isn t Mrs. Wilcox come at last!" "Have you got the key, auntie?" "Madge, go away," said Miss Avery, still invisible.<|quote|>"Auntie, it s Mrs. Wilcox--"</|quote|>Margaret supported her. "Your niece and I have come together." "Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat." The poor woman went red. "Auntie gets more eccentric lately," she said nervously. "Miss Avery!" called Margaret. "I have come about the furniture. Could you kindly let me in?" "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox," said the voice, "of course." But after that came silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. "I hope Miss Avery is not ill," hazarded Margaret. "Well, if you ll excuse me," said Madge, "perhaps I ought to be leaving you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times." Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. Miss Avery said, "Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!" quite pleasantly and calmly. "Thank you so much," began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an umbrella-stand. It was her own. "Come right into the hall first," said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father s sword--this is what bewildered her particularly--had been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. "I m afraid this isn t what we meant," she began. "Mr. Wilcox and I never intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much." "The house has been empty long enough," said the old woman. Margaret refused to argue. "I dare say we didn t explain," she said civilly. "It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake." "Mrs. Wilcox, it has | Howards End |
cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; | No speaker | look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt | poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, | have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, | I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character | existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes. Leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. | faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own." "Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. "Go on!" "You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said Monks, "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search ay, and found the child." "She took it, did she?" "No. The people were poor and began to sicken at least the man did of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes. Leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I | they're where you'll never get them. What then?" "Nothing," replied Mr. Brownlow, "except that it remains for us to take care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may leave the room." "I hope," said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: "I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?" "Indeed it will," replied Mr. Brownlow. "You may make up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides." "It was all Mrs. Bumble. She _would_ do it," urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room. "That is no excuse," replied Mr. Brownlow. "You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction." "If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, "the law is a ass a idiot. If that's the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience by experience." Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs. "Young lady," said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, "give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say." "If they have I do not know how they can, but if they have any reference to me," said Rose, "pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now." "Nay," returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; "you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?" "Yes," replied Monks. "I never saw you before," said Rose faintly. "I have seen you often," returned Monks. "The father of the unhappy Agnes had _two_ daughters," said Mr. Brownlow. "What was the fate of the other the child?" "The child," replied Monks, "when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own." "Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. "Go on!" "You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said Monks, "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search ay, and found the child." "She took it, did she?" "No. The people were poor and began to sicken at least the man did of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes. Leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it." "The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear." "The disclosure of to-night," Harry began. "The disclosure of to-night," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover. "Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I could, and spare myself this pain." "Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night." "And what have I heard! What have I heard!" cried Rose. "That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough." "Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling: every thought in life except my love for you: have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home a heart and home yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer." "What do you mean!" she faltered. "I mean but this that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church mine, Rose, my own! there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!" "It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation. "I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night," said Mr. Grimwig, "for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be." | not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say." "If they have I do not know how they can, but if they have any reference to me," said Rose, "pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now." "Nay," returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; "you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?" "Yes," replied Monks. "I never saw you before," said Rose faintly. "I have seen you often," returned Monks. "The father of the unhappy Agnes had _two_ daughters," said Mr. Brownlow. "What was the fate of the other the child?" "The child," replied Monks, "when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own." "Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. "Go on!" "You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said Monks, "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it, after a year of cunning search ay, and found the child." "She took it, did she?" "No. The people were poor and began to sicken at least the man did of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back." "Do you see her now?" "Yes. Leaning on your arm." "But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!" "The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, best of friends. My heart will burst. I cannot bear all this." "You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt,"<|quote|>cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck;</|quote|>"I'll never call her aunt sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear, darling Rose!" Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and gave place to Harry Maylie. "I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, I know it all." "I am not here by accident," he added after a lengthened silence; "nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday only yesterday. Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?" "Stay," said Rose. "You _do_ know all." "All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse." "I did." "Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you | Oliver Twist |
Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." | No speaker | "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett | his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been | said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor | went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob | I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike | wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating | of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses. "Here, would you like to look?" I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors. Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his | not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good," said Brett. "Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No,"<|quote|>Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff."</|quote|>"Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down | The Sun Also Rises |
"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." | Mike Campbell | it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett | letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do | good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." | had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You | saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as | weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. | well as the first?" Robert Cohn asked. "They seemed to quiet down awfully fast." "They all know each other," I said. "They're only dangerous when they're alone, or only two or three of them together." "What do you mean, dangerous?" Bill said. "They all looked dangerous to me." "They only want to kill when they're alone. Of course, if you went in there you'd probably detach one of them from the herd, and he'd be dangerous." "That's too complicated," Bill said. "Don't you ever detach me from the herd, Mike." "I say," Mike said, "they _were_ fine bulls, weren't they? Did you see their horns?" "Did I not," said Brett. "I had no idea what they were like." "Did you see the one hit that steer?" Mike asked. "That was extraordinary." "It's no life being a steer," Robert Cohn said. "Don't you think so?" Mike said. "I would have thought you'd loved being a steer, Robert." "What do you mean, Mike?" "They lead such a quiet life. They never say anything and they're always hanging about so." We were embarrassed. Bill laughed. Robert Cohn was angry. Mike went on talking. "I should think you'd love it. You'd never have to say a word. Come on, Robert. Do say something. Don't just sit there." "I said something, Mike. Don't you remember? About the steers." "Oh, say something more. Say something funny. Can't you see we're all having a good time here?" "Come off it, Michael. You're drunk," Brett said. "I'm not drunk. I'm quite serious. _Is_ Robert Cohn going to follow Brett around like a steer all the time?" "Shut up, Michael. Try and show a little breeding." "Breeding be damned. Who has any breeding, anyway, except the bulls? Aren't the bulls lovely? Don't you like them, Bill? Why don't you say something, Robert? Don't sit there looking like a bloody funeral. What if Brett did sleep with you? She's slept with lots of better people than you." "Shut up," Cohn said. He stood up. "Shut up, Mike." "Oh, don't stand up and act as though you were going to hit me. That won't make any difference to me. Tell me, Robert. Why do you follow Brett around like a poor bloody steer? Don't you know you're not wanted? I know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you know when you're not wanted? You came down to San Sebastian where you weren't wanted, and followed Brett around like a bloody steer. Do you think that's right?" "Shut up. You're drunk." "Perhaps I am drunk. Why aren't you drunk? Why don't you ever get drunk, Robert? You know you didn't have a good time at San Sebastian because none of our friends would invite you on any of the parties. You can't blame them hardly. Can you? I asked them to. They wouldn't do it. You can't blame them, now. Can you? Now, answer me. Can you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible when he's tight." "He wasn't so tight." "The hell he wasn't. I know what we had before we came to the caf ." "He sobered up afterward." "Good. He was terrible. I don't like Cohn, God knows, and I think it was a silly trick for him to go down to San Sebastian, but nobody has any business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?" "Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." "To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. CHAPTER 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my | blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything."<|quote|>"No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home."</|quote|>"You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns men into swine. Damn good. I wish I were one of these literary chaps." "He'd be good, you know," Brett said. "He writes a good letter." "I know," I said. "He wrote me from San Sebastian." "That was nothing," Brett said. "He can write a damned amusing letter." "She made me write that. She was supposed to be ill." "I damned well was, too." "Come on," I said, "we must go in and eat." "How should I meet Cohn?" Mike said. "Just act as though nothing had happened." "It's quite all right with me," Mike said. "I'm not embarrassed." "If he says anything, just say you were tight." "Quite. And the funny thing is I think I was tight." "Come on," Brett said. "Are these poisonous things paid for? I must bathe before dinner." We walked across the square. It was dark and all around the square were the lights from the caf s under the arcades. We walked across the gravel under the trees to the hotel. They went up-stairs and I stopped to speak with Montoya. "Well, how did you like the bulls?" he asked. "Good. They were nice bulls." "They're all right" "--Montoya shook his head--" "but they're not too good." "What didn't you like about them?" "I don't know. They just didn't give me the feeling that they were so good." "I know what you mean." "They're all right." "Yes. They're all right." "How did your friends like them?" "Fine." "Good," Montoya said. I went up-stairs. Bill was in his room standing on the balcony looking out at the square. I stood beside him. "Where's Cohn?" "Up-stairs in his room." "How does he feel?" "Like hell, naturally. Mike was awful. He's terrible | The Sun Also Rises |
"You seem to know all about it, Mike," | Constable | in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course | and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I | I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I | done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, | it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. | 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 you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt | "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 you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," cried Jem, with alacrity; and he made at Mike, while Don felt a strange desire tingling in his veins as he longed to help as well. "I gives in," growled Mike. "I could chuck the whole lot on you outer winder, but I won't. It would only make it seem as if I was guilty, and it's not guilty, and so I tell you. Master says I took the money, and I says it was that young Don Lavington as is the thief. Come on, youngster. I'll talk to you when we're in the lock-up." Don looked wildly from Mike to his uncle, whose eyes were fixed on the constable. "Do you charge the boy too, sir?" Uncle Josiah was silent for some moments. "No! Not now!" Lindon's heart leapt at that word "_no_!" But it sank again at the "_not now_." "But the case is awkward, sir," said the constable. "After what this man has said we shall be obliged to take some notice of the matter." "'Bliged to? Course you will. Here, bring 'im along. Come on, mate. I can tell you stories all night now about my bygones. Keep up yer sperrits, and I daresay the magistrits 'll let you off pretty easy." "If there is any charge made against my young clerk," --Don winced, for his uncle did not say, "against my nephew," -- "I will be answerable for his appearance before the magistrates. That will be sufficient, I presume." "Yes, sir, I suppose that will do," said the constable. "But I s'pose it won't," said Mike. "He's the monkey and I'm only the cat. You've got to take him if you does your dooty, and master 'll be answerable for me." "Exactly," said the constable; "come along." "Nay, but this arn't fair, master. Take one, take all. You bring us both." "Come along." "If you don't bring that there young un too, I won't go," exclaimed the scoundrel, fiercely. _Click_! A short struggle, and then _click_ again, and Mike Bannock's hands were useless, but he threw himself down. "Fair play, fair play," he cried, savagely; "take one, take all. Are you going to charge him, master?" "Take the scoundrel away, Smithers, and once more I will be bail--before the magistrates, if necessary--for my clerk's appearance," cried Uncle Josiah, who was now out of patience. "Can I help?" "Well, sir, you could," said the constable, grimly; "but if you'd have in three or four of your men, and a short step ladder, we could soon carry him off." "No man sha'n't carry me off," roared Mike, as Jem ran out of the office with great alacrity, and returned in a very short time with three men and a stout ladder, about nine feet long. "That's the sort, Wimble," said the constable. "Didn't think of a rope, did you?" "Did I think of two ropes?" said Jem, grinning. "Ah!" ejaculated the constable. "Now, Mike Bannock, I just warn you that any violence will make your case worse. Take my advice, get up and come quietly." "Take young Don Lavington too, then, and I will." "Get up, and walk quietly." "Not 'less you takes him." "Sorry to make | quiet," growled Jem. "I'm going to spoil the shape of his nose for him before he goes." "Then you don't believe it, Jem?" cried Don, passionately. "Believe it, my lad? Why, I couldn't believe it if he swore it 'fore a hundred million magistrits." "No, that's allus the way with higgerant chaps like you, Jem Wimble," said Mike; "but it's all true, genelmen, and I'm sorry I didn't speak out afore like a man, for he don't deserve what I did for him." "Hah!" ejaculated Uncle Josiah, and Don's face was full of despair. "You charge Mike Bannock, then, with stealing this money, sir," said the constable. "Yes, certainly." "What?" roared Mike, savagely, "charge me?" "That will do," said the constable, taking a little staff with a brass crown on the end from his pocket. "No nonsense, or I shall call in help. In the King's name, my lad. Do you give in?" "Give in? What for? I arn't done nothing. Charge him; he's the thief." Don started as if the word _thief_ were a stinging lash. Jem loosed his hold, and with double fists dashed at the scoundrel. "You say Master Don's a thief!" "Silence, Wimble! Stand back, sir," cried Uncle Josiah, sternly. "But, sir--" "Silence, man! Am I master here?" Jem drew back muttering. "Charge him, I say," continued Mike, boisterously; "and if you won't, I will. Look here, Mr Smithers, I charge this 'ere boy with going to his uncle's desk and taking all the gold, and leaving all the silver in a little hogamee bowl."<|quote|>"You seem to know all about it, Mike,"</|quote|>said the constable, grimly. "Course I do, my lad. I seed him. Caught him in the werry act, and he dropped one o' the guineas, and it run away under the desk, and he couldn't find it." "You saw all that, eh?" said the constable. "Every bit of it. I swears to it, sir." "And how came you to be in the office to see it?" "How come I in the office to see it?" said Mike, staring; "how come I in the office to see it?" "Yes. Your work's in the yard, isn't it?" "Course it is," said Mike, with plenty of effrontery; "but I heerd the money jingling like, and I went in to see." "And very kind of you too, Mike," said the constable, jocularly. "Don't you forget to tell that to the magistrates." "Magistrits? What magistrits? Master arn't going to give me in custody, I know." "Indeed, but I am, you scoundrel," cried Uncle Josiah, wrathfully. "You are one of the worst kind of thieves--" "Here, take that back, master." "Worst kind of scoundrels--dogs who bite the hand that has fed them." "I tell yer it was him," said Mike, with a ferocious glare at Don. "All right, Mike, you tell the magistrates that," said the constable, "and don't forget." "I arn't going 'fore no magistrits," grumbled Mike. "Yes, you are," said the constable, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now then, is it to be quietly?" Mike made a furious gesture. "Just as you like," said the constable. "Jem Wimble, I call you in the King's name to help." "Which I just will," | Don Lavington |
"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," | Noah Claypole | milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The | strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy | Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had | ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." | matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where | altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, | idea not from what had just passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay. There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life on the object of her more recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain: the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited." These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed _that_. But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he crept homeward, "can I increase my influence with her? What new power can I acquire?" Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you can." "What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his employer, eagerly, in the face. "If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to be gained." "Who is she?" inquired Noah. "One of us." "Oh Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?" "She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are," replied Fagin. "I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man." "I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal. "Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? Where am I to go?" "All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me." That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter's dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed six long weary nights and on each, Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday. "She goes abroad to-night," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!" Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London. It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and the door was closed behind them. Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining room. "Is that the woman?" he asked, scarcely above his breath. Fagin nodded yes. "I can't see her face well," whispered Noah. "She is looking down, and the candle is behind her." "Stay there," whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to the girl, caused her to raise her face. "I see her now," cried the spy. "Plainly?" "I should know her among a thousand." He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of concealment, and emerged | from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? "I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!" He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way: busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion of his fingers. CHAPTER XLV. NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious assault on the breakfast. "Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite Morris Bolter. "Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. Yer never get time enough over yer meals." "You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart. "Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?" "Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young woman, because I wanted us to be alone." "Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me." There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business. "You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a fortune to you." "Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter. "No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the milk-can was a perfect masterpiece."<|quote|>"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,"</|quote|>remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. "The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!" Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second. "I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution." "I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and so I tell yer." "That's not the smallest danger in it not the very smallest," said the Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman." "An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "A young one," replied Fagin. "I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to" "Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the house, if it | Oliver Twist |
"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?" | Katharine Hilbery | Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I | teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, | by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There | herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to | of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do | inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I | was pleasant, Mary thought, although he made her laugh. The very look of him was inclined to make her laugh. His rather prominent eyes passed from one young woman to the other, and his lips perpetually formed words which remained unspoken. "We have been seeing old masters at the Grafton Gallery," said Katharine, apparently paying no attention to William, and accepting a cigarette which Mary offered her. She leant back in her chair, and the smoke which hung about her face seemed to withdraw her still further from the others. "Would you believe it, Miss Datchet," William continued, "Katharine doesn t like Titian. She doesn t like apricots, she doesn t like peaches, she doesn t like green peas. She likes the Elgin marbles, and gray days without any sun. She s a typical example of the cold northern nature. I come from Devonshire" Had they been quarreling, Mary wondered, and had they, for that reason, sought refuge in her room, or were they engaged, or had Katharine just refused him? She was completely baffled. Katharine now reappeared from her veil of smoke, knocked the ash from her cigarette into the fireplace, and looked, with an odd expression of solicitude, at the irritable man. "Perhaps, Mary," she said tentatively, "you wouldn t mind giving us some tea? We did try to get some, but the shop was so crowded, and in the next one there was a band playing; and most of the pictures, at any rate, were very dull, whatever you may say, William." She spoke with a kind of guarded gentleness. Mary, accordingly, retired to make preparations in the pantry. "What in the world are they after?" she asked of her own reflection in the little looking-glass which hung there. She was not left to doubt much longer, for, on coming back into the sitting-room with the tea-things, Katharine informed her, apparently having been instructed so to do by William, of their engagement. "William," she said, "thinks that perhaps you don t know. We are going to be married." Mary found herself shaking William s hand, and addressing her congratulations to him, as if Katharine were inaccessible; she had, indeed, taken hold of the tea-kettle. "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home" The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone: "I think being engaged is very bad for the character." She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation. As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives inspired Katharine Hilbery in life. There was something that carried her on smoothly, out of reach something, yes, but what? something that reminded Mary of Ralph. Oddly enough, he gave her the same feeling, too, and with him, too, she felt baffled. Oddly enough, for no two people, she hastily concluded, were more unlike. And yet both had this hidden impulse, this incalculable force this thing they cared for and didn t talk about oh, what was it? CHAPTER XV The village of Disham lies somewhere on the rolling piece of cultivated ground in the neighborhood of Lincoln, not so far inland but that a sound, bringing rumors of the sea, can be heard on summer nights or when the winter storms fling the waves upon the long beach. So large is the church, and | "Let me see," Katharine said, "one puts hot water into the cups first, doesn t one? You have some dodge of your own, haven t you, William, about making tea?" Mary was half inclined to suspect that this was said in order to conceal nervousness, but if so, the concealment was unusually perfect. Talk of marriage was dismissed. Katharine might have been seated in her own drawing-room, controlling a situation which presented no sort of difficulty to her trained mind. Rather to her surprise, Mary found herself making conversation with William about old Italian pictures, while Katharine poured out tea, cut cake, kept William s plate supplied, without joining more than was necessary in the conversation. She seemed to have taken possession of Mary s room, and to handle the cups as if they belonged to her. But it was done so naturally that it bred no resentment in Mary; on the contrary, she found herself putting her hand on Katharine s knee, affectionately, for an instant. Was there something maternal in this assumption of control? And thinking of Katharine as one who would soon be married, these maternal airs filled Mary s mind with a new tenderness, and even with awe. Katharine seemed very much older and more experienced than she was. Meanwhile Rodney talked. If his appearance was superficially against him, it had the advantage of making his solid merits something of a surprise. He had kept notebooks; he knew a great deal about pictures. He could compare different examples in different galleries, and his authoritative answers to intelligent questions gained not a little, Mary felt, from the smart taps which he dealt, as he delivered them, upon the lumps of coal. She was impressed. "Your tea, William," said Katharine gently. He paused, gulped it down, obediently, and continued. And then it struck Mary that Katharine, in the shade of her broad-brimmed hat, and in the midst of the smoke, and in the obscurity of her character, was, perhaps, smiling to herself, not altogether in the maternal spirit. What she said was very simple, but her words, even "Your tea, William," were set down as gently and cautiously and exactly as the feet of a Persian cat stepping among China ornaments. For the second time that day Mary felt herself baffled by something inscrutable in the character of a person to whom she felt herself much attracted. She thought that if she were engaged to Katharine, she, too, would find herself very soon using those fretful questions with which William evidently teased his bride. And yet Katharine s voice was humble.<|quote|>"I wonder how you find the time to know all about pictures as well as books?"</|quote|>she asked. "How do I find the time?" William answered, delighted, Mary guessed, at this little compliment. "Why, I always travel with a notebook. And I ask my way to the picture gallery the very first thing in the morning. And then I meet men, and talk to them. There s a man in my office who knows all about the Flemish school. I was telling Miss Datchet about the Flemish school. I picked up a lot of it from him it s a way men have Gibbons, his name is. You must meet him. We ll ask him to lunch. And this not caring about art," he explained, turning to Mary, "it s one of Katharine s poses, Miss Datchet. Did you know she posed? She pretends that she s never read Shakespeare. And why should she read Shakespeare, since she IS Shakespeare Rosalind, you know," and he gave his queer little chuckle. Somehow this compliment appeared very old-fashioned and almost in bad taste. Mary actually felt herself blush, as if he had said "the sex" or "the ladies." Constrained, perhaps, by nervousness, Rodney continued in the same vein. "She knows enough enough for all decent purposes. What do you women want with learning, when you have so much else everything, I should say everything. Leave us something, eh, Katharine?" "Leave you something?" said Katharine, apparently waking from a brown study. "I was thinking we must be going" "Is it to-night that Lady Ferrilby dines with us? No, we mustn t be late," said Rodney, rising. "D you know the Ferrilbys, Miss Datchet? They own Trantem Abbey," he added, for her information, as she looked doubtful. "And if Katharine makes herself very charming to-night, perhaps ll lend it to us for the honeymoon." "I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she s a dull woman," said Katharine. "At least," she added, as if to qualify her abruptness, "I find it difficult to talk to her." "Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I ve seen her sit silent a whole evening," he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. "Don t you find that, too? Sometimes when we re alone, I ve counted the time on my watch" here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass "the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you ll believe me, she only said Um!" "I m sure I m sorry," Katharine apologized. "I know it s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home" The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone: "I | Night And Day |
flashed Helen, | No speaker | often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He | of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He | this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little | out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk." "Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It s better like this." "Why better?" asked Margaret. "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment s awkwardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you re better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom caught | "Heavens, no!" replied Margaret. "Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen. "I m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand--not if I explained for days." "No, it wasn t foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. "You ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you." "You ve not been content to dream as we have--" "Though we have walked, too--" "I must show you a picture upstairs--" Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening party. "Oh, bother, not to say dash--I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk." "Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It s better like this." "Why better?" asked Margaret. "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment s awkwardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you re better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her | said: "Curious it should all come about from reading something of Richard Jefferies." "Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you re wrong there. It didn t. It came from something far greater." But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent after Jefferies--Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies books--the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge. "Then you don t think I was foolish?" he asked becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature intended him. "Heavens, no!" replied Margaret. "Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen. "I m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand--not if I explained for days." "No, it wasn t foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. "You ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you." "You ve not been content to dream as we have--" "Though we have walked, too--" "I must show you a picture upstairs--" Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening party. "Oh, bother, not to say dash--I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk." "Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It s better like this." "Why better?" asked Margaret. "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment s awkwardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you re better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels--or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them--were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he had ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge, where a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a friendship, asked him to "coffee after hall," which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, still | it?" "I managed one wood, and found a road the other side which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was those North Downs, for the road went off into grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I did wish I d never come, but suddenly it got light--just while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and took the first train I could back to London." "But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen. With unforgettable sincerity he replied, "No." The word flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the "love of the earth" and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke with a flow, an exultation, that he had seldom known. "The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention." "Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know." "--and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it, and so cold too. I m glad I did it, and yet at the time it bored me more than I can say. And besides--you can believe me or not as you choose--I was very hungry. That dinner at Wimbledon--I meant it to last me all night like other dinners. I never thought that walking would make such a difference. Why, when you re walking you want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon and tea during the night as well, and I d nothing but a packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking back, it wasn t what you may call enjoyment. It was more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I--I was determined. Oh, hang it all! what s the good--I mean, the good of living in a room for ever? There one goes on day after day, same old game, same up and down to town, until you forget there is any other game. You ought to see once in a way what s going on outside, if it s only nothing particular after all." "I should just think you ought," said Helen, sitting on the edge of the table. The sound of a lady s voice recalled him from sincerity, and he said: "Curious it should all come about from reading something of Richard Jefferies." "Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you re wrong there. It didn t. It came from something far greater." But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent after Jefferies--Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies books--the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge. "Then you don t think I was foolish?" he asked becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature intended him. "Heavens, no!" replied Margaret. "Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen. "I m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand--not if I explained for days." "No, it wasn t foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. "You ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you." "You ve not been content to dream as we have--" "Though we have walked, too--" "I must show you a picture upstairs--" Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening party. "Oh, bother, not to say dash--I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk." "Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It s better like this." "Why better?" asked Margaret. "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment s awkwardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you re better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels--or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them--were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he had ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge, where a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a friendship, asked him to "coffee after hall," which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, still less with Jacky, and people with fuller, happier lives are slow to understand this. To the Schlegels, as to the undergraduate, he was an interesting creature, of whom they wanted to see more. But they to him were denizens of Romance, who must keep to the corner he had assigned them, pictures that must not walk out of their frames. His behaviour over Margaret s visiting-card had been typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage. Where there is no money and no inclination to violence tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor were enough. Here "that card" had come in. Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying about. Jacky found it, and then began, "What s that card, eh?" "Yes, don t you wish you knew what that card was?" "Len, who s Miss Schlegel?" etc. Months passed, and the card, now as a joke, now as a grievance, was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It followed them when they moved from Camelia Road to Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A few inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why did he not say, "A lady took my umbrella, another gave me this that I might call for my umbrella"? Because Jacky would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly because he was sentimental. No affection gathered round the card, but it symbolised the life of culture, that Jacky should never spoil. At night he would say to himself, "Well, at all events, she doesn t know about that card. Yah! done her there!" Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion--she was only capable of drawing one conclusion--and in the fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday Leonard had refused to speak to her, and had spent the evening observing the stars. On the Saturday he went up, as usual, to town, but he came not back Saturday night, nor Sunday morning, nor Sunday afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable, and though she was now of a retiring habit, and shy of women, she went up to Wickham Place. Leonard returned in her absence. The card, the fatal card, was gone from the pages of | and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our weakness, we mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater than Jefferies books--the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge. "Then you don t think I was foolish?" he asked becoming again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature intended him. "Heavens, no!" replied Margaret. "Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen. "I m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand--not if I explained for days." "No, it wasn t foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame. "You ve pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you." "You ve not been content to dream as we have--" "Though we have walked, too--" "I must show you a picture upstairs--" Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening party. "Oh, bother, not to say dash--I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk." "Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret. Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall not. It s better like this." "Why better?" asked Margaret. "No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave it." "That s rather a sad view of life, surely." "Things so often get spoiled." "I know,"<|quote|>flashed Helen,</|quote|>"but people don t." He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true imagination and false. What he said wasn t wrong, but it wasn t right, and a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment s awkwardness, and then Helen said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you re better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening. London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels--or, to speak more accurately, his interview with them--were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that he had talked intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he had ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge, where a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They had got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of his domestic troubles and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a friendship, asked him to "coffee after hall," which he accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not to stir from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want Romance to | Howards End |
"My dear Louisa as Tom says." | Mr. James Harthouse | think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. | very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of | me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, | discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; but what they said was this: "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?" "Oh, perfectly!" "His face, and his manner, and what he said?" "Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures for excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fellow | mean time, ma'am, I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is talked about, the better." The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, resting from her packing operations, looked towards her great staircase and saw Louisa still descending. She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, talking very low; he stood leaning over her, as they whispered together, and his face almost touched her hair. "If not quite!" said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; but what they said was this: "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?" "Oh, perfectly!" "His face, and his manner, and what he said?" "Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures for excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes morality. Well; all sorts of humbugs profess morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Correction, there is a general profession of morality, except among our people; it really is that exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard the case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby who, as we know, is not possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, left the house grumbling, | for a nurse; I had only a she-wolf for a grandmother. She didn't give any milk, ma'am; she gave bruises. She was a regular Alderney at that." "Ah!" Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered. "No, ma'am," continued Bounderby, "I have not heard anything more about it. It's in hand, though; and young Tom, who rather sticks to business at present something new for him; he hadn't the schooling _I_ had is helping. My injunction is, Keep it quiet, and let it seem to blow over. Do what you like under the rose, but don't give a sign of what you're about; or half a hundred of 'em will combine together and get this fellow who has bolted, out of reach for good. Keep it quiet, and the thieves will grow in confidence by little and little, and we shall have 'em." "Very sagacious indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Very interesting. The old woman you mentioned, sir" "The old woman I mentioned, ma'am," said Bounderby, cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to boast about, "is not laid hold of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if that is any satisfaction to her villainous old mind. In the mean time, ma'am, I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is talked about, the better." The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, resting from her packing operations, looked towards her great staircase and saw Louisa still descending. She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, talking very low; he stood leaning over her, as they whispered together, and his face almost touched her hair. "If not quite!" said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; but what they said was this: "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?" "Oh, perfectly!" "His face, and his manner, and what he said?" "Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures for excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes morality. Well; all sorts of humbugs profess morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Correction, there is a general profession of morality, except among our people; it really is that exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard the case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby who, as we know, is not possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, left the house grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him to go in for some share in this Bank business, went in, put something in his pocket which had nothing in it before, and relieved his mind extremely. Really he would have been an uncommon, instead of a common, fellow, if he had not availed himself of such an opportunity. Or he may have originated it altogether, if he had the cleverness." "I almost feel as though it must be bad in me," returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile, "to be so ready to agree with you, and to be so lightened in my heart by what you say." "I only say what is reasonable; nothing worse. I have talked it over with my friend Tom more than once of course I remain on terms of perfect confidence with Tom and he is quite of my opinion, and I am quite of his. Will you walk?" They strolled away, among the lanes beginning to be indistinct in the twilight she leaning on his arm and she little thought how she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Sparsit's staircase. Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it standing. When Louisa had arrived at the bottom and | with his greatness that she should object to anything he chose to do, resolved not to lose sight of Mrs. Sparsit easily. So when her nerves were strung up to the pitch of again consuming sweetbreads in solitude, he said to her at the dinner-table, on the day before her departure, "I tell you what, ma'am; you shall come down here of a Saturday, while the fine weather lasts, and stay till Monday." To which Mrs. Sparsit returned, in effect, though not of the Mahomedan persuasion: "To hear is to obey." Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetical woman; but she took an idea in the nature of an allegorical fancy, into her head. Much watching of Louisa, and much consequent observation of her impenetrable demeanour, which keenly whetted and sharpened Mrs. Sparsit's edge, must have given her as it were a lift, in the way of inspiration. She erected in her mind a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit of shame and ruin at the bottom; and down those stairs, from day to day and hour to hour, she saw Louisa coming. It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit's life, to look up at her staircase, and to watch Louisa coming down. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, sometimes several steps at one bout, sometimes stopping, never turning back. If she had once turned back, it might have been the death of Mrs. Sparsit in spleen and grief. She had been descending steadily, to the day, and on the day, when Mr. Bounderby issued the weekly invitation recorded above. Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclined to be conversational. "And pray, sir," said she, "if I may venture to ask a question appertaining to any subject on which you show reserve which is indeed hardy in me, for I well know you have a reason for everything you do have you received intelligence respecting the robbery?" "Why, ma'am, no; not yet. Under the circumstances, I didn't expect it yet. Rome wasn't built in a day, ma'am." "Very true, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head. "Nor yet in a week, ma'am." "No, indeed, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a gentle melancholy upon her. "In a similar manner, ma'am," said Bounderby, "I can wait, you know. If Romulus and Remus could wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait. They were better off in their youth than I was, however. They had a she-wolf for a nurse; I had only a she-wolf for a grandmother. She didn't give any milk, ma'am; she gave bruises. She was a regular Alderney at that." "Ah!" Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered. "No, ma'am," continued Bounderby, "I have not heard anything more about it. It's in hand, though; and young Tom, who rather sticks to business at present something new for him; he hadn't the schooling _I_ had is helping. My injunction is, Keep it quiet, and let it seem to blow over. Do what you like under the rose, but don't give a sign of what you're about; or half a hundred of 'em will combine together and get this fellow who has bolted, out of reach for good. Keep it quiet, and the thieves will grow in confidence by little and little, and we shall have 'em." "Very sagacious indeed, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Very interesting. The old woman you mentioned, sir" "The old woman I mentioned, ma'am," said Bounderby, cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to boast about, "is not laid hold of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if that is any satisfaction to her villainous old mind. In the mean time, ma'am, I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is talked about, the better." The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, resting from her packing operations, looked towards her great staircase and saw Louisa still descending. She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, talking very low; he stood leaning over her, as they whispered together, and his face almost touched her hair. "If not quite!" said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; but what they said was this: "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?" "Oh, perfectly!" "His face, and his manner, and what he said?" "Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures for excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes morality. Well; all sorts of humbugs profess morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Correction, there is a general profession of morality, except among our people; it really is that exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard the case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby who, as we know, is not possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, left the house grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him to go in for some share in this Bank business, went in, put something in his pocket which had nothing in it before, and relieved his mind extremely. Really he would have been an uncommon, instead of a common, fellow, if he had not availed himself of such an opportunity. Or he may have originated it altogether, if he had the cleverness." "I almost feel as though it must be bad in me," returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile, "to be so ready to agree with you, and to be so lightened in my heart by what you say." "I only say what is reasonable; nothing worse. I have talked it over with my friend Tom more than once of course I remain on terms of perfect confidence with Tom and he is quite of my opinion, and I am quite of his. Will you walk?" They strolled away, among the lanes beginning to be indistinct in the twilight she leaning on his arm and she little thought how she was going down, down, down, Mrs. Sparsit's staircase. Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it standing. When Louisa had arrived at the bottom and disappeared in the gulf, it might fall in upon her if it would; but, until then, there it was to be, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit's eyes. And there Louisa always was, upon it. And always gliding down, down, down! Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come and go; she heard of him here and there; she saw the changes of the face he had studied; she, too, remarked to a nicety how and when it clouded, how and when it cleared; she kept her black eyes wide open, with no touch of pity, with no touch of compunction, all absorbed in interest. In the interest of seeing her, ever drawing, with no hand to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bottom of this new Giant's Staircase. With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby as contradistinguished from his portrait, Mrs. Sparsit had not the smallest intention of interrupting the descent. Eager to see it accomplished, and yet patient, she waited for the last fall, as for the ripeness and fulness of the harvest of her hopes. Hushed in expectancy, she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs; and seldom so much as darkly shook her right mitten (with her fist in it), at the figure coming down. CHAPTER XI LOWER AND LOWER THE figure descended the great stairs, steadily, steadily; always verging, like a weight in deep water, to the black gulf at the bottom. Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife's decease, made an expedition from London, and buried her in a business-like manner. He then returned with promptitude to the national cinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for the odds and ends he wanted, and his throwing of the dust about into the eyes of other people who wanted other odds and ends in fact resumed his parliamentary duties. In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept unwinking watch and ward. Separated from her staircase, all the week, by the length of iron road dividing Coketown from the country house, she yet maintained her cat-like observation of Louisa, through her husband, through her brother, through James Harthouse, through the outsides of letters and packets, through everything animate and inanimate that at any time went near the stairs. "Your foot on the last step, my lady," said Mrs. Sparsit, apostrophizing the descending figure, with the aid of her threatening mitten, "and all your art shall never blind me." Art or nature though, the | mentioned, sir" "The old woman I mentioned, ma'am," said Bounderby, cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to boast about, "is not laid hold of; but, she may take her oath she will be, if that is any satisfaction to her villainous old mind. In the mean time, ma'am, I am of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she is talked about, the better." The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber window, resting from her packing operations, looked towards her great staircase and saw Louisa still descending. She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden, talking very low; he stood leaning over her, as they whispered together, and his face almost touched her hair. "If not quite!" said Mrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's eyes to the utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear a word of their discourse, or even to know that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the expression of their figures; but what they said was this: "You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?" "Oh, perfectly!" "His face, and his manner, and what he said?" "Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he appeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, I assure you I thought at the time," "My good fellow, you are over-doing this!"" "It has been very difficult to me to think ill of that man."<|quote|>"My dear Louisa as Tom says."</|quote|>Which he never did say. "You know no good of the fellow?" "No, certainly." "Nor of any other such person?" "How can I," she returned, with more of her first manner on her than he had lately seen, "when I know nothing of them, men or women?" "My dear Louisa, then consent to receive the submissive representation of your devoted friend, who knows something of several varieties of his excellent fellow-creatures for excellent they are, I am quite ready to believe, in spite of such little foibles as always helping themselves to what they can get hold of. This fellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. He professes morality. Well; all sorts of humbugs profess morality. From the House of Commons to the House of Correction, there is a general profession of morality, except among our people; it really is that exception which makes our people quite reviving. You saw and heard the case. Here was one of the fluffy classes pulled up extremely short by my esteemed friend Mr. Bounderby who, as we know, is not possessed of that delicacy which would soften so tight a hand. The member of the fluffy classes was injured, exasperated, left the house grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him to go in for some share in this Bank business, went in, put something in his pocket which had nothing in it before, and relieved his mind extremely. Really he would have been an uncommon, instead of a common, fellow, if he had not availed himself of such an opportunity. Or he may have originated it altogether, if he had the cleverness." "I almost feel as though it must be bad in me," returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile, "to be so ready to agree with you, and to be so lightened in my heart by what you say." "I only say what is reasonable; nothing worse. I have talked it over with my friend Tom more | Hard Times |
--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear-- | No speaker | said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati | him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. | the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, | short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are | said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to | they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed | shot-hole in him, and his head all beaten about with big clubs." "Oh, Jem!" "That's so, Mas' Don." "Is he better?" "Oh, yes; he's getting better. I don't think you could kill him. Sort o' chap that if you cut him to pieces some bit or another would be sure to grow again." "Why, it was Mike Bannock and those wretches, Jem." "That's what we thought, my lad, but we couldn't find out. It was some one, and whoever it was took away three guns." "I saw them, Jem." "You see 'em?" "Yes, as I lay back with my head so bad that I couldn't be sure." "Ah, well, they found us out, and they've got their guns again; but they give it to poor Ngati awful." Just then the window was darkened by a hideous-looking face, which disappeared directly. Then steps were heard, and the great chief came in, bending low to avoid striking his head against the roof till he reached the rough bedside, where he bent over Don, and patted him gently, saying softly, "My pakeha." CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. DON SPEAKS OUT. A healthy young constitution helped Don Lavington through his perilous illness, and in another fortnight he was about the farm, helping in any little way he could. "I'm very sorry, Mr Gordon," said Don one evening to the young settler. "Sorry? What for, my lad?" he said. "For bringing those convicts after us to your place, and for being ill and giving you so much trouble." "Nonsense, my lad! I did begin to grumble once when I thought you were going to be ungrateful to me for taking you in." "Ungrateful!" "Yes, ungrateful, and trying to die." "Oh!" said Don smiling. "Nice mess I should have been in if you had. No church, no clergyman, no doctor, no sexton. Why, you young dog, it would have been cruel." Don smiled sadly. "I am really very grateful, sir; I am indeed, and I think by to-morrow or next day I shall be strong enough to go." "What, and leave me in the lurch just as I'm so busy! Why, with the thought of having you fellows here, I've been fencing in pieces and making no end of improvements. That big Maori can cut down as much wood as two men, and as for Jem Wimble, he's the handiest fellow I ever saw." "I am very glad they have been of use, sir. I wish I could be." "You're right enough, boy. Stop six months--a year altogether--and I shall be very glad of your help." This set Don at rest, and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have | and he brightened up wonderfully, making great strides during the next fortnight, and feeling almost himself, till, one evening as he was returning from where he had been helping Jem and Ngati cut up wood for fencing, he fancied he saw some animal creeping through the ferns. A minute's watching convinced him that this was a fact, but he could not make out what it was. Soon after, as they were seated at their evening meal, he mentioned what he had seen. "One of the sheep got loose," said Gordon. "No, it was not a sheep." "Well, what could it have been? There are no animals here, hardly, except the pigs which have run wild." "It looked as big as a sheep, but it was not a pig," said Don thoughtfully. "Could it have been a man going on all fours?" "Hullo! What's the matter?" cried Gordon looking up sharply, as one of his two neighbours came to the door with his wife. "Well, I doan't know," said the settler. "My wife says she is sure she saw a savage creeping along through the bush behind our place." "There!" said Don excitedly. "Here's t'others coming," said Jem. For at that moment the other settler, whose log-house was a hundred yards below, came up at a trot, gun in hand, in company with his wife and sister. "Here, look sharp, Gordon," he said; "there's a party out on a raid. We came up here, for we had better join hands." "Of course," said Gordon. "Come in; but I think you are frightening yourselves at shadows, and--" He stopped short, for Jem Wimble dashed at the door and banged it to just as Ngati sprang to the corner of the big log kitchen and caught up a spear. "Mike and them two beauties, Mas' Don!" cried Jem. "Then it's war, is it?" said Gordon grimly, as he reconnoitred from the window. "Eight--ten--twelve--about thirty Maori savages, and three white ones. Hand round the guns, Don Lavington. You can shoot, can't you?" "Yes, a little." "That's right. Can we depend on Ngati? If we can't, he'd better go." "I'll answer for him," said Don. "All right!" said Gordon. "Look here, Ngati,"<|quote|>--he pointed out of the window and then tapped the spear--</|quote|>"bad pakehas, bad--bad, kill." Ngati grunted, and his eyes flashed. "Kill pakehas--bad pakehas," he said in a deep, fierce voice. "Kill!" Then tapping the Englishmen one by one on the shoulder, "Pakeha good," he said smiling, and then taking Don by the arm, "My pakeha," he added. "That's all right, sir," said Jem; "he understands." "Now then, quick! Make everything fast. We can keep them out so long as they don't try fire. And look here, I hate bloodshed, neighbours, but those convict scoundrels have raised these poor savages up against us for the sake of plunder. Recollect, we are fighting for our homes-- to defend the women." A low, angry murmur arose as the guns were quickly examined, ammunition placed ready, and the rough, strong door barricaded with boxes and tubs, the women being sent up a rough ladder through a trap-door to huddle together in the roof, where they would be in safety. "So long as they don't set us afire, Mas' Don," whispered Jem. "What's that?" said Gordon sharply. "Jem fears fire," said Don. "So do I, my lad, so we must keep them at a distance; and if they do fire us run all together to the next house, and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. | Don Lavington |
“that might be, and still----!” | Crimble | Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare | than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find | as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming | not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” | of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, | at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only | didn’t trouble him to confess it. “Directly you had gone she ‘turned down’ Lord John. Declined, I mean, the offer of his hand in marriage.” Hugh was clearly as much mystified as anything else. “He proposed there--?” “He had spoken, that day, _before_--before your talk with Lord Theign, who had every confidence in her accepting him. But you came, Mr. Crimble, you went; and when her suitor reappeared, just after you _had_ gone, for his answer--” “She wouldn’t have him?” Hugh asked with a precipitation of interest. But Lady Sandgate could humour almost any curiosity. “She wouldn’t look at him.” He bethought himself. “But had she said she would?” “So her father indignantly considers.” “That’s the _ground_ of his indignation?” “He had his reasons for counting on her, and it has determined a painful crisis.” Hugh Crimble turned this over--feeling apparently for something he didn’t find. “I’m sorry to hear such things, but where’s the connection with me?” “Ah, you know best yourself, and if you don’t see any---!” In that case, Lady Sandgate’s motion implied, she washed her hands of it. Hugh had for a moment the air of a young man treated to the sweet chance to guess a conundrum--which he gave up. “I really don’t see any, Lady Sandgate. But,” he a little inconsistently said, “I’m greatly obliged to you for telling me.” “Don’t mention it!--though I think it _is_ good of me,” she smiled, “on so short an acquaintance.” To which she added more gravely: “I leave you the situation--but I’m willing to let you know that I’m all on Grace’s side.” “So am I, _rather!_--please let me frankly say.” He clearly refreshed, he even almost charmed her. “It’s the very least you can say!--though I’m not sure whether you say it as the simplest or as the very subtlest of men. But in case you don’t know as I do how little the particular candidate I’ve named----” “Had a right or a claim to succeed with her?” he broke in--all quick intelligence here at least. “No, I don’t perhaps know as well as you do--but I think I know as well as I just yet require.” “There you are then! And if you did prevent,” his hostess maturely pursued, “what wouldn’t have been--well, good or nice, I’m quite on your side too.” Our young man seemed to feel the shade of ambiguity, but he reached at a meaning. “You’re with me in my plea for our defending at any cost of effort or ingenuity--” “The precious picture Lord Theign exposes?” --she took his presumed sense faster than he had taken hers. But she hung fire a moment with her reply to it. “Well, will you keep the secret of everything I’ve said or say?” “To the death, to the stake, Lady Sandgate!” “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him after that hour, no,” she allowed. “And I couldn’t go, you see, to Kitty.” “No indeed, you couldn’t go to Kitty.” He smiled at her hard as he added: “I should have liked to see you go to Kitty! Therefore exactly is it that I’ve set you adrift--that I’ve darkened and poisoned your days. You’re paying with your comfort, with your peace, for having joined so gallantly in my grand remonstrance.” She shook her head, turning from him, but then turned back again--as if accepting, as if even relieved by, this version of the prime cause of her state. “Why do you talk of it as ‘paying’--if it’s all to come back to my _being_ paid? I mean by your blest success--if you really do what you want.” “I have your word for it,” he searchingly said, “that our really pulling it off together will make up to you----?” “I should be ashamed if it didn’t, for everything!” --she took the question from his mouth. “I believe in such a cause exactly as you do--and found a lesson, at Dedborough, in your frankness and your faith.” “Then you’ll help me no end,” he said all simply and sincerely. “You’ve helped _me_ already” --that she gave him straight back. And on it they stayed a moment, their strenuous faces more intensely communing. “You’re very wonderful--for a girl!” Hugh brought | “Then,” she momentously returned, “I only want, too, to make Bender impossible. If you ask me,” she pursued, “how I arrange that with my deep loyalty to Lord Theign----” “I don’t ask you anything of the sort,” he interrupted-- “I wouldn’t ask you for the world; and my own bright plan for achieving the _coup_ you mention------” “You’ll have time, at the most,” she said, consulting afresh her bracelet watch, “to explain to Lady Grace.” She reached an electric bell, which she touched--facing then her visitor again with an abrupt and slightly embarrassed change of tone. “You do think _my_ great portrait splendid?” He had strayed far from it and all too languidly came back. “Your Lawrence there? As I said, magnificent.” But the butler had come in, interrupting, straight from the lobby; of whom she made her request. “Let her ladyship know--Mr. Crimble.” Gotch looked hard at Hugh and the crumpled hat--almost as if having an option. But he resigned himself to repeating, with a distinctness that scarce fell short of the invidious, “Mr. Crimble,” and departed on his errand. Lady Sandgate’s fair flush of diplomacy had meanwhile not faded. “Couldn’t you, with your immense cleverness and power, get the Government to do something?” “About your picture?” Hugh betrayed on this head a graceless detachment. “You too then want to sell?” Oh she righted herself. “Never to a private party!” “Mr. Bender’s not after it?” he asked--though scarce lighting his reluctant interest with a forced smile. “Most intensely after it. But never,” cried the proprietress, “to a bloated alien!” “Then I applaud your patriotism. Only why not,” he asked, “carrying that magnanimity a little further, set us all an example as splendid as the object itself?” “Give it you for nothing?” She threw up shocked hands. “Because I’m an aged female pauper and can’t make _every_ sacrifice.” Hugh pretended--none too convincingly--to think. “Will you let them have it very cheap?” “Yes--for less than such a bribe as Bender’s.” “Ah,” he said expressively,<|quote|>“that might be, and still----!”</|quote|>“Well,” she had a flare of fond confidence. “I’ll find out what he’ll offer--if you’ll on your side do what you can--and then ask them a third less.” And she followed it up--as if suddenly conceiving him a prig. “See here, Mr. Crimble, I’ve been--and this very first time I--charming to you.” “You have indeed,” he returned; “but you throw back on it a lurid light if it has all been for _that!_” “It has been--well, to keep things as I want them; and if I’ve given you precious information mightn’t you on your side--” “Estimate its value in cash?” --Hugh sharply took her up. “Ah, Lady Sandgate, I _am_ in your debt, but if you really bargain for your precious information I’d rather we assume that I haven’t enjoyed it.” She made him, however, in reply, a sign for silence; she had heard Lady Grace enter the other room from the back landing, and, reaching the nearer door, she disposed of the question with high gay bravery. “I won’t bargain with the Treasury!” --she had passed out by the time Lady Grace arrived. II As Hugh recognised in this friend’s entrance and face the light of welcome he went, full of his subject, straight to their main affair. “I haven’t been able to wait, I’ve wanted so much to tell you--I mean how I’ve just come back from Brussels, where I saw Pappen-dick, who was free and ready, by the happiest chance, to start for Verona, which he must have reached some time yesterday.” The girl’s responsive interest fairly broke into rapture. “Ah, the dear sweet thing!” “Yes, he’s a brick--but the question now hangs in the balance. Allowing him time to have got into relation with the picture, I’ve begun to expect his wire, which will probably come to my club; but my fidget, while I wait, has driven me” --he threw out and dropped his arms in expression of his soft surrender-- “well, just to do _this_: to come to you here, in my fever, at an unnatural hour and uninvited, and at least let you know I’ve ‘acted.’” “Oh, but I simply rejoice,” Lady Grace declared, “to be acting _with_ you.” “Then if you are, if you are,” the young man cried, “why everything’s beautiful and right!” “It’s all I care for and think of now,” she went on in her bright devotion, “and I’ve only wondered and hoped!” Well, Hugh found for it all a rapid, abundant lucidity. “He was away from home at first, and I had to wait--but I crossed last week, found him and settled incoming home by Paris, where I had a grand four days’ jaw with the fellows there and saw _their_ great specimen of our master: all of which has given him time.” “And now his time’s up?” the girl eagerly asked. “It _must_ be--and we shall see.” But Hugh postponed that question to a matter of more moment still. “The thing is that at last I’m able to tell you how I feel the trouble I’ve brought you.” It made her, quickly colouring, rest grave eyes on him. “What do you know--when I haven’t told you--about my ‘trouble’?” “Can’t I have guessed, with a ray of intelligence?” --he had his answer ready. “You’ve sought asylum with this good friend from the effects of your father’s resentment.” “‘Sought asylum’ is perhaps excessive,” Lady Grace returned-- “though it wasn’t pleasant with him | The Outcry |
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