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Margaret glanced out of the window. | No speaker | taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself | yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, | to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. | good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through." "You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to | replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through." "You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve | and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall. CHAPTER XXXVII Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through." "You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because | s doctor s orders. Open the door." "Forgive me, but I will not." "I don t agree." Margaret was silent. "This business is as broad as it s long," contributed the doctor. "We had better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you." "Quite so," said Henry. "I do not need you in the least," said Margaret. The two men looked at each other anxiously. "No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement." "Margaret, Margaret!" "Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?" Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was trouble ahead. "It all turns on affection now," said Margaret. "Affection. Don t you see?" Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. "Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. Mansbridge doesn t know her. That s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It s a useful formula." Henry told her to be calm. "You don t know what you want yourselves," said Margaret, folding her arms. "For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I ll stand here all the day sooner." "Mansbridge," said Henry in a low voice, "perhaps not now." The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into the car. "Now, Henry, you," she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at him. "Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go." He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. "I shall soon find you down at Dolly s," she called, as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall. CHAPTER XXXVII Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through." "You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English life--no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie Street! It s unthinkable." Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who would not blame her. She had been through--how much? Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. "Tell me about yourself," said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was lingering over the furniture. "There s nothing to tell." "But your marriage has been happy, Meg?" "Yes, but I don t feel inclined to talk." "You feel as I do." "Not that, but I can t." "No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying." Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. "Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?" "You mean that you want to go away from me?" "I suppose so--dear old lady! it isn t any use. I knew we should have nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later." "Certainly, dearest." "For that is all we can do." It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen s common sense; Monica had been extraordinarily good for her. "I am glad to have seen you and the things." She looked at the bookcase lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: "The car has gone, and here s your cab." She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, "Please, lady, a message," and handed her Henry s visiting-card through the bars. "How did this come?" she asked. Crane | too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low voice to him. "I shall soon find you down at Dolly s," she called, as the gate at last clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. "Oh, my darling!" she said. "My darling, forgive me." Helen was standing in the hall. CHAPTER XXXVII Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: "Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found nearly everything that I want." "I told you nothing that was true." "It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?" "Helen, you wouldn t think I d invent that?" "I suppose not," said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. "But one loses faith in everything after this." "We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven t behaved worthily." Helen selected another book. "I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought of me?" She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater crime than any that Helen could have committed--that want of confidence that is the work of the devil. "Yes, I am annoyed," replied Helen. "My wishes should have been respected. I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do." "Come away from those books," called Margaret. "Helen, do talk to me." "I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can t go through a great deal of --" "--she left out the noun--" "without planning one s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known." "But why didn t you tell me, dearest?" "Yes," replied Helen judicially. "I might have, but decided to wait." "I believe you would never have told me." "Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich."<|quote|>Margaret glanced out of the window.</|quote|>"By we I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always wish to be alone." "I have not heard of Monica." "You wouldn t have. She s an Italian--by birth at least. She makes her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to see me through." "You are very fond of her, then." "She has been extraordinarily sensible with me." Margaret guessed at Monica s type--"Italiano Inglesiato" they had named it--the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! "You must not think that we shall never meet," said Helen, with a measured kindness. "I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven t understood yet, Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England." "Helen, you ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN T talk like this to me if you had." "Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?" She dropped a book and sighed wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: "Tell me, how is it that all the books are down here?" "Series of mistakes." "And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked." "All." "Who lives here, then?" "No one." "I suppose you are letting it, though." "The house is dead," said Margaret, with a frown. "Why worry on about it?" "But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes own things." "Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it on condition we--but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of--" She stopped. "Look here, I can t go on like this. I warn you I won t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?" "I don t hate him now," said Helen. "I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, Meg, once again, I | Howards End |
"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful." | Miss Bartlett | knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore | only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word | present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser | Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have | a resource. She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could wind herself up to speak." Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, | what I gather from all that I have known of you. I do sympathize and agree most profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me make one little criticism: Is it worth while rushing off to Greece?" "But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have been worrying all the morning, and here comes the very thing." She struck her knees with clenched fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time I shall have with mother, and all the money she spent on me last spring. You all think much too highly of me. I wish you weren't so kind." At this moment Miss Bartlett entered, and her nervousness increased. "I must get away, ever so far. I must know my own mind and where I want to go." "Come along; tea, tea, tea," said Mr. Beebe, and bustled his guests out of the front-door. He hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When he returned for it he heard, to his relief and surprise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. "She is playing again," he said to Miss Bartlett. "Lucy can always play," was the acid reply. "One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could wind herself up to speak." Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said: "We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling." They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss | She laughed heartily. "Oh, delightful! I wish they'd take me." "Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel? Perhaps George Emerson is right. He says that" 'Italy is only an euphuism for Fate.'" "Oh, not Italy, but Constantinople. I have always longed to go to Constantinople. Constantinople is practically Asia, isn't it?" Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was still unlikely, and that the Miss Alans only aimed at Athens, "with Delphi, perhaps, if the roads are safe." But this made no difference to her enthusiasm. She had always longed to go to Greece even more, it seemed. He saw, to his surprise, that she was apparently serious. "I didn't realize that you and the Miss Alans were still such friends, after Cissie Villa." "Oh, that's nothing; I assure you Cissie Villa's nothing to me; I would give anything to go with them." "Would your mother spare you again so soon? You have scarcely been home three months." "She MUST spare me!" cried Lucy, in growing excitement. "I simply MUST go away. I have to." She ran her fingers hysterically through her hair. "Don't you see that I HAVE to go away? I didn't realize at the time--and of course I want to see Constantinople so particularly." "You mean that since you have broken off your engagement you feel--" "Yes, yes. I knew you'd understand." Mr. Beebe did not quite understand. Why could not Miss Honeychurch repose in the bosom of her family? Cecil had evidently taken up the dignified line, and was not going to annoy her. Then it struck him that her family itself might be annoying. He hinted this to her, and she accepted the hint eagerly. "Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until they are used to the idea and everything has calmed down." "I am afraid it has been a bothersome business," he said gently. "No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed; only--I had better tell you the whole truth, since you have heard a little--it was that he is so masterful. I found that he wouldn't let me go my own way. He would improve me in places where I can't be improved. Cecil won't let a woman decide for herself--in fact, he daren't. What nonsense I do talk! But that is the kind of thing." "It is what I gathered from my own observation of Mr. Vyse; it is what I gather from all that I have known of you. I do sympathize and agree most profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me make one little criticism: Is it worth while rushing off to Greece?" "But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have been worrying all the morning, and here comes the very thing." She struck her knees with clenched fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time I shall have with mother, and all the money she spent on me last spring. You all think much too highly of me. I wish you weren't so kind." At this moment Miss Bartlett entered, and her nervousness increased. "I must get away, ever so far. I must know my own mind and where I want to go." "Come along; tea, tea, tea," said Mr. Beebe, and bustled his guests out of the front-door. He hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When he returned for it he heard, to his relief and surprise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. "She is playing again," he said to Miss Bartlett. "Lucy can always play," was the acid reply. "One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could wind herself up to speak." Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said: "We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling." They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. It's all--I can't explain--it's wrong." Miss Bartlett read the letter in silence, laid it down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again. "I can't see the point of it myself." To his astonishment, she replied: "There I cannot agree with you. In it I spy Lucy's salvation." "Really. Now, why?" "She wanted to leave Windy Corner." "I know--but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so--I was going to say--selfish." "It is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she should desire a change." Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellect misses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: "So she says herself, and since another lady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhaps she must have a change. I have no sisters or--and I don't understand these things. But why need she go as far as Greece?" "You may well ask that," replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidently interested, and had almost dropped her evasive manner. "Why Greece? (What is it, Minnie dear--jam?) Why not Tunbridge Wells? Oh, Mr. Beebe! I had a long and most unsatisfactory interview with dear Lucy this morning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have already said too much. I am not to talk. I wanted her to spend six months with me at Tunbridge Wells, and she refused." Mr. Beebe poked at a crumb with his knife. "But my feelings are of no importance. I know too well that I get on Lucy's nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, and when we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, and all the time I felt that I was spending her mother's money--." "Let us keep to the | hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat. When he returned for it he heard, to his relief and surprise, the tinkling of a Mozart Sonata. "She is playing again," he said to Miss Bartlett. "Lucy can always play," was the acid reply. "One is very thankful that she has such a resource. She is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. The marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could wind herself up to speak." Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he prepared for a discussion. He had never fathomed Miss Bartlett. As he had put it to himself at Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning." But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. He assumed that much, and he had no hesitation in discussing Lucy with her. Minnie was fortunately collecting ferns. She opened the discussion with: "We had much better let the matter drop." "I wonder." "It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in Summer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal at the present moment." Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely too strong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, Miss Honeychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind."<|quote|>"I know," said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have told even you. One cannot be too careful."</|quote|>"Quite so." "I do implore absolute secrecy. A chance word to a chattering friend, and--" "Exactly." He was used to these nervous old maids and to the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of petty secrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, saying cheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believe you keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give the Signora a testimonial." And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips such crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyes rested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile came to his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said: "We shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was appalling." They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy. "I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "and, unless you very much object, I would like to reopen that discussion." She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she wants to join the Miss Alans in their mad career. It's all--I | A Room With A View |
"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?" | Unknowable | listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France | luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see | Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You | Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more | and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is | on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her | octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't you remember? John was going hunting to-day." She frowned, not at once taking in what he was saying. "John... John Andrew... I... oh, thank God..." Then she burst into tears. She wept helplessly, turning round in the chair and pressing her forehead against its gilt back. Upstairs Mrs Northcote had Souki Foucauld-Esterhazy by the foot and was saying, "There are four men dominating your fate. One is loyal and tender but has not yet disclosed his love..." [VII] In the silence of Hetton, the telephone rang near the housekeeper's room and was switched through to the library. Tony answered it. "This is Jock speaking. I've just seen Brenda. She's coming down by the seven o'clock train." "Is she terribly upset?" "Yes, naturally." "Where is she now?" "She's with me. I'm speaking from Polly's." "Shall I talk to her?" "Better not." "All right... I'll meet that train. Are you coming too?" "No." "Well, you've been wonderful. I don't know what I should have done without you and Mrs Rattery." "Oh, that's all right. I'll see Brenda off." She had stopped crying and sat crouched in the chair. She did not look up while Jock telephoned. Then she said, "Yes, I'll go by that train." "We ought to start. I suppose you will have to get some things from the flat." "My bag... upstairs. You get it. I can't go in there again." She did not speak on her way to her flat. She sat beside Jock as he drove, looking straight ahead. When they arrived she unlocked her door and led him in. The room was extremely empty of furniture. She sat down in the only chair. "There's plenty of time really. Tell me exactly what happened." Jock told her. "Poor little boy," she said. "Poor little boy." Then she opened her cupboard and began to put a few things into a suitcase; she went in and out from the bathroom once or twice. "That's everything," she said. "There's still too much time." "Would you like anything to eat?" "Oh no, nothing to eat." She sat down again and looked at herself in the glass. She did not attempt to do | know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for precedence. It was Brenda's turn now. She went next door to Mrs Northcote, who was sitting at a stool beside an armchair. She was a dowdy, middle-aged woman with a slightly genteel accent. Brenda sat down and took off her shoe and stocking. Mrs Northcote laid the foot on her knee and gazed at it with great solemnity; then she picked it up and began tracing the small creases of the sole with the point of a silver pencil case. Brenda wriggled her toes luxuriously and settled down to listen. Next door they said,<|quote|>"Where's Mr Beaver to-day?"</|quote|>"He's flown over to France with his mother to see some new wallpapers. She's been worrying all day thinking he's had an accident." "It's all very touching, isn't it? Though I can't see his point myself..." "You must never do anything on Thursdays," said Mrs Northcote. "Nothing?" "Nothing important. You are intellectual, imaginative, sympathetic, easily led by others, impulsive, affectionate. You are highly artistic and are not giving full scope to your capabilities." "Isn't there anything about love?" "I am coming to love. All these lines from the great toe to the instep represent lovers." "Yes, go on some more about that..." Princess Abdul Akbar was announced. "Where's Brenda?" she said. "I thought she'd be here." "Mrs Northcote's doing her now." "Jock Menzies wants to see her. He's downstairs." "Darling Jock... Why on earth didn't you bring him up?" "No, it's something terribly important. He's got to see Brenda alone." "My dear, how mysterious. Well, she won't be long now. We can't disturb them. It would upset Mrs Northcote." Jenny told them the news. On the other side of the door, Brenda's leg was beginning to feel slightly chilly. "Four men dominate your fate," Mrs Northcote was saying, "one is loyal and tender but he has not yet disclosed his love, one is passionate and overpowering, you are a little afraid of him." "Dear me," said Brenda. "How very exciting. Who _can_ they be?" "One you must avoid; he bodes no good for you, he is steely hearted and rapacious." "I bet that's my Mr Beaver, bless him." Downstairs Jock was waiting in the small front room where Polly's guests usually assembled before luncheon. It was five past six. Soon Brenda pulled on her stocking, stepped into her shoe and joined the ladies. "_Most_ enjoyable," she pronounced. "Why, how odd you all look." "Jock Grant-Menzies wants to see you downstairs." "Jock? How very extraordinary. It isn't anything awful, is it?" "You'd better go and see him." Suddenly Brenda became frightened by the strange air of the room and the unfamiliar expression in her friends' faces. She ran downstairs to the room where Jock was waiting. "What is it, Jock? Tell me quickly, I'm scared. It's nothing awful, is it?" "I'm afraid it is. There's been a very serious accident." "John?" "Yes." "Dead?" He nodded. She sat down on a hard little Empire chair against the wall, perfectly still with her hands folded in her lap, like a small well-brought-up child introduced into a room full of grown-ups. She said, "Tell me what happened. Why do you know about it first?" "I've been down at Hetton since the week-end." "Hetton?" "Don't | A Handful Of Dust |
"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service." | Caroline Abbott | be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose | waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. | pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding | attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny | do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother." There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last. "One more question, and only one more. What is his father?" "His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don t suppose you ll think it a good match. But that s not the point. I mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love, after all--not but what--I--" Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. "Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense, so | Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm. She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say English standards would find him too short." Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it. "May I conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother." There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last. "One more question, and only one more. What is his father?" "His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don t suppose you ll think it a good match. But that s not the point. I mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love, after all--not but what--I--" Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. "Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense, so really unworldly--after all, love-marriages are made in heaven." "Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear heaven s choice. You arouse my curiosity. Is my sister-in-law to marry an angel?" "Mr. Herriton, don t--please, Mr. Herriton--a dentist. His father s a dentist." Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He shuddered all over, and edged away from his companion. A dentist! A dentist at Monteriano. A dentist in fairyland! False teeth and laughing gas and the tilting chair at a place which knew the Etruscan League, and the Pax Romana, and Alaric himself, and the Countess Matilda, and the Middle Ages, all fighting and holiness, and the Renaissance, all fighting and beauty! He thought of Lilia no longer. He was anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might die. Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it goes from us the better. It was going from Philip now, and therefore he gave the cry of pain. "I cannot think what is | The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And here she was in a legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with as much to answer and to answer for as the most dashing adventuress could desire. They shook hands without speaking. She made room for Philip and his luggage amidst the loud indignation of the unsuccessful driver, whom it required the combined eloquence of the station-master and the station beggar to confute. The silence was prolonged until they started. For three days he had been considering what he should do, and still more what he should say. He had invented a dozen imaginary conversations, in all of which his logic and eloquence procured him certain victory. But how to begin? He was in the enemy s country, and everything--the hot sun, the cold air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. "Are we to talk it over now?" he asked. "Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. "If you will be so very kind." "Then how long has she been engaged?" Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror. "A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if the shortness of the time would reassure him. "I should like to know how long, if you can remember." She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. "Exactly eleven days," she said at last. "How long have you been here?" More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. "Close on three weeks." "Did you know him before you came?" "No." "Oh! Who is he?" "A native of the place." The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the side of the carriage. "I understood they met at the hotel." "It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald s." "I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility." She did not reply. "May I be told his name?" Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already. "Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?" "Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. "Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop." "Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to give all information which you very naturally--and to see if somehow--please ask anything you like." "Then how old is he?" "Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe." There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!" "One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott, flushing. "He looks much older." "And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm. She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say English standards would find him too short." Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it. "May I conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother." There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last. "One more question, and only one more. What is his father?" "His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don t suppose you ll think it a good match. But that s not the point. I mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love, after all--not but what--I--" Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. "Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense, so really unworldly--after all, love-marriages are made in heaven." "Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear heaven s choice. You arouse my curiosity. Is my sister-in-law to marry an angel?" "Mr. Herriton, don t--please, Mr. Herriton--a dentist. His father s a dentist." Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He shuddered all over, and edged away from his companion. A dentist! A dentist at Monteriano. A dentist in fairyland! False teeth and laughing gas and the tilting chair at a place which knew the Etruscan League, and the Pax Romana, and Alaric himself, and the Countess Matilda, and the Middle Ages, all fighting and holiness, and the Renaissance, all fighting and beauty! He thought of Lilia no longer. He was anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might die. Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it goes from us the better. It was going from Philip now, and therefore he gave the cry of pain. "I cannot think what is in the air," he began. "If Lilia was determined to disgrace us, she might have found a less repulsive way. A boy of medium height with a pretty face, the son of a dentist at Monteriano. Have I put it correctly? May I surmise that he has not got one penny? May I also surmise that his social position is nil? Furthermore--" "Stop! I ll tell you no more." "Really, Miss Abbott, it is a little late for reticence. You have equipped me admirably!" "I ll tell you not another word!" she cried, with a spasm of terror. Then she got out her handkerchief, and seemed as if she would shed tears. After a silence, which he intended to symbolize to her the dropping of a curtain on the scene, he began to talk of other subjects. They were among olives again, and the wood with its beauty and wildness had passed away. But as they climbed higher the country opened out, and there appeared, high on a hill to the right, Monteriano. The hazy green of the olives rose up to its walls, and it seemed to float in isolation between trees and sky, like some fantastic ship city of a dream. Its colour was brown, and it revealed not a single house--nothing but the narrow circle of the walls, and behind them seventeen towers--all that was left of the fifty-two that had filled the city in her prime. Some were only stumps, some were inclining stiffly to their fall, some were still erect, piercing like masts into the blue. It was impossible to praise it as beautiful, but it was also impossible to damn it as quaint. Meanwhile Philip talked continually, thinking this to be great evidence of resource and tact. It showed Miss Abbott that he had probed her to the bottom, but was able to conquer his disgust, and by sheer force of intellect continue to be as agreeable and amusing as ever. He did not know that he talked a good deal of nonsense, and that the sheer force of his intellect was weakened by the sight of Monteriano, and by the thought of dentistry within those walls. The town above them swung to the left, to the right, to the left again, as the road wound upward through the trees, and the towers began to glow in the descending sun. As they drew near, | conclude that you like him?" She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen him, I do." At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers. "As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated Miss Abbott, after a pause. He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. "What is he, please? You haven t told me that. What s his position?" She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably.<|quote|>"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You see, he has only just finished his military service."</|quote|>"As a private?" "I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn t that the crack regiment?" "The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six miles an hour." She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. "And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do." "Meanwhile?" "Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother." There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last. "One more question, and only one more. What is his father?" "His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don t suppose you ll think it a good match. But that s not the point. I mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love, after all--not but what--I--" Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. "Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense, so really unworldly--after all, love-marriages are made in heaven." "Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear heaven s choice. You arouse my curiosity. Is my sister-in-law to marry an angel?" "Mr. Herriton, don t--please, Mr. Herriton--a dentist. His father s a dentist." Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He shuddered | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air. | No speaker | answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us | no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old | you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to | simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. | know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious | t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, | more and more a matter of fine-spun gallantry. As I have already had occasion to relate, he was angry at finding himself reduced to chopping logic about this young lady; he was vexed at his want of instinctive certitude as to how far her eccentricities were generic, national, and how far they were personal. From either view of them he had somehow missed her, and now it was too late. She was "carried away" by Mr. Giovanelli. A few days after his brief interview with her mother, he encountered her in that beautiful abode of flowering desolation known as the Palace of the Caesars. The early Roman spring had filled the air with bloom and perfume, and the rugged surface of the Palatine was muffled with tender verdure. Daisy was strolling along the top of one of those great mounds of ruin that are embanked with mossy marble and paved with monumental inscriptions. It seemed to him that Rome had never been so lovely as just then. He stood, looking off at the enchanting harmony of line and color that remotely encircles the city, inhaling the softly humid odors, and feeling the freshness of the year and the antiquity of the place reaffirm themselves in mysterious interfusion. It seemed to him also that Daisy had never looked so pretty, but this had been an observation of his whenever he met her. Giovanelli was at her side, and Giovanelli, too, wore an aspect of even unwonted brilliancy. "Well," said Daisy, "I should think you would be lonesome!" "Lonesome?" asked Winterbourne. "You are always going round by yourself. Can t you get anyone to walk with you?" "I am not so fortunate," said Winterbourne, "as your companion." Giovanelli, from the first, had treated Winterbourne with distinguished politeness. He listened with a deferential air to his remarks; he laughed punctiliously at his pleasantries; he seemed disposed to testify to his belief that Winterbourne was a superior young man. He carried himself in no degree like a jealous wooer; he had obviously a great deal of tact; he had no objection to your expecting a little humility of him. It even seemed to Winterbourne at times that Giovanelli would find a certain mental relief in being able to have a private understanding with him--to say to him, as an intelligent man, that, bless you, HE knew how extraordinary was this young lady, and didn t flatter himself with delusive--or at least TOO delusive--hopes of matrimony and dollars. On this occasion he strolled away from his companion to pluck a sprig of almond blossom, which he carefully arranged in his buttonhole. "I know why you say that," said Daisy, watching Giovanelli. "Because you think I go round too much with HIM." And she nodded at her attendant. "Every one thinks so--if you care to know," said Winterbourne. "Of course I care to know!" Daisy exclaimed seriously. "But I don t believe it. They are only pretending to be shocked. They don t really care a straw what I do. Besides, I don t go round so much." "I think you will find they do care. They will show it disagreeably." Daisy looked at him a moment. "How disagreeably?" "Haven t you noticed anything?" Winterbourne asked. "I have noticed you. But I noticed you were as stiff as an umbrella the first time I saw you." "You will find I am not so stiff as several others," said Winterbourne, smiling. "How shall I find it?" "By going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away | going to see the others." "What will they do to me?" "They will give you the cold shoulder. Do you know what that means?" Daisy was looking at him intently; she began to color. "Do you mean as Mrs. Walker did the other night?" "Exactly!" said Winterbourne. She looked away at Giovanelli, who was decorating himself with his almond blossom. Then looking back at Winterbourne, "I shouldn t think you would let people be so unkind!" she said. "How can I help it?" he asked. "I should think you would say something." "I do say something;" and he paused a moment. "I say that your mother tells me that she believes you are engaged." "Well, she does," said Daisy very simply. Winterbourne began to laugh. "And does Randolph believe it?" he asked. "I guess Randolph doesn t believe anything," said Daisy. Randolph s skepticism excited Winterbourne to further hilarity, and he observed that Giovanelli was coming back to them. Daisy, observing it too, addressed herself again to her countryman. "Since you have mentioned it," she said, "I AM engaged." * * * Winterbourne looked at her; he had stopped laughing. "You don t believe!" she added. He was silent a moment; and then, "Yes, I believe it," he said. "Oh, no, you don t!" she answered. "Well, then--I am not!"<|quote|>The young girl and her cicerone were on their way to the gate of the enclosure, so that Winterbourne, who had but lately entered, presently took leave of them. A week afterward he went to dine at a beautiful villa on the Caelian Hill, and, on arriving, dismissed his hired vehicle. The evening was charming, and he promised himself the satisfaction of walking home beneath the Arch of Constantine and past the vaguely lighted monuments of the Forum. There was a waning moon in the sky, and her radiance was not brilliant, but she was veiled in a thin cloud curtain which seemed to diffuse and equalize it. When, on his return from the villa (it was eleven o clock), Winterbourne approached the dusky circle of the Colosseum, it recurred to him, as a lover of the picturesque, that the interior, in the pale moonshine, would be well worth a glance. He turned aside and walked to one of the empty arches, near which, as he observed, an open carriage--one of the little Roman streetcabs--was stationed. Then he passed in, among the cavernous shadows of the great structure, and emerged upon the clear and silent arena. The place had never seemed to him more impressive. One-half of the gigantic circus was in deep shade, the other was sleeping in the luminous dusk. As he stood there he began to murmur Byron s famous lines, out of "Manfred," but before he had finished his quotation he remembered that if nocturnal meditations in the Colosseum are recommended by the poets, they are deprecated by the doctors. The historic atmosphere was there, certainly; but the historic atmosphere, scientifically considered, was no better than a villainous miasma. Winterbourne walked to the middle of the arena, to take a more general glance, intending thereafter to make a hasty retreat. The great cross in the center was covered with shadow; it was only as he drew near it that he made it out distinctly. Then he saw that two persons were stationed upon the low steps which formed its base. One of these was a woman, seated; her companion was standing in front of her. Presently the sound of the woman s voice came to him distinctly in the warm night air.</|quote|>"Well, he looks at us as one of the old lions or tigers may have looked at the Christian martyrs!" These were the words he heard, in the familiar accent of Miss Daisy Miller. "Let us hope he is not very hungry," responded the ingenious Giovanelli. "He will have to take me first; you will serve for dessert!" Winterbourne stopped, with a sort of horror, and, it must be added, with a sort of relief. It was as if a sudden illumination had been flashed upon the ambiguity of Daisy s behavior, and the riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion." "Ah," said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither | Daisy Miller |
Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table. | No speaker | one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I | other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not | don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to | than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, | drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come | he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----" "Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!" Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, | Romero turned to me. He was serious. The critic explained that he liked it very much, but that so far it had been incomplete. "Wait till to-morrow, if a good one comes out." "Have you seen the bulls for to-morrow?" the critic asked me. "Yes. I saw them unloaded." Pedro Romero leaned forward. "What did you think of them?" "Very nice," I said. "About twenty-six arrobas. Very short horns. Haven't you seen them?" "Oh, yes," said Romero. "They won't weigh twenty-six arrobas," said the critic. "No," said Romero. "They've got bananas for horns," the critic said. "You call them bananas?" asked Romero. He turned to me and smiled. "_You_ wouldn't call them bananas?" "No," I said. "They're horns all right." "They're very short," said Pedro Romero. "Very, very short. Still, they aren't bananas." "I say, Jake," Brett called from the next table, "you _have_ deserted us." "Just temporarily," I said. "We're talking bulls." "You _are_ superior." "Tell him that bulls have no balls," Mike shouted. He was drunk. Romero looked at me inquiringly. "Drunk," I said. "Borracho! Muy borracho!" "You might introduce your friends," Brett said. She had not stopped looking at Pedro Romero. I asked them if they would like to have coffee with us. They both stood up. Romero's face was very brown. He had very nice manners. I introduced them all around and they started to sit down, but there was not enough room, so we all moved over to the big table by the wall to have coffee. Mike ordered a bottle of Fundador and glasses for everybody. There was a lot of drunken talking. "Tell him I think writing is lousy," Bill said. "Go on, tell him. Tell him I'm ashamed of being a writer." Pedro Romero was sitting beside Brett and listening to her. "Go on. Tell him!" Bill said. Romero looked up smiling. "This gentleman," I said, "is a writer." Romero was impressed. "This other one, too," I said, pointing at Cohn. "He looks like Villalta," Romero said, looking at Bill. "Rafael, doesn't he look like Villalta?" "I can't see it," the critic said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----" "Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!" Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go up," Brett said. "That Don Manuel chap is furious." "He's probably worked for weeks fixing them to go off, spelling out 'Hail to San Fermin,'" Bill said. "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A bunch of bloody globos illuminados." "Come on," said Brett. "We can't stand here." "Her ladyship wants a drink," Mike said. "How you know things," Brett said. Inside, the caf was crowded and very noisy. No one noticed us come in. We could not find a table. There was a great noise going on. "Come on, let's get out of here," Bill said. Outside the paseo was going in under the arcade. There were some English and Americans from Biarritz in sport clothes scattered at the tables. Some of the women stared at the people going by with lorgnons. We had acquired, at some time, a friend of Bill's from Biarritz. She was staying with another girl at the Grand Hotel. The other girl had a headache and had gone to bed. "Here's the pub," Mike said. It was the Bar Milano, a small, tough bar where you could get food and where they danced in the back room. We all sat down at a table and ordered a bottle of Fundador. The bar was not full. There was nothing going on. "This is a hell of a place," Bill said. "It's too early." "Let's take the bottle and come back later," Bill said. "I don't want to sit here on a night like this." "Let's go and look at the English," Mike said. "I love to look at the English." "They're awful," Bill said. "Where did they all come from?" "They come from Biarritz," Mike | said. "Really," Romero said in Spanish. "He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?" "Nothing." "Is that why he drinks?" "No. He's waiting to marry this lady." "Tell him bulls have no balls!" Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table. "What does he say?" "He's drunk." "Jake," Mike called. "Tell him bulls have no balls!" "You understand?" I said. "Yes." I was sure he didn't, so it was all right. "Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants." "Pipe down, Mike." "Tell him Brett is dying to know how he can get into those pants." "Pipe down." During this Romero was fingering his glass and talking with Brett. Brett was talking French and he was talking Spanish and a little English, and laughing. Bill was filling the glasses. "Tell him Brett wants to come into----" "Oh, pipe down, Mike, for Christ's sake!" Romero looked up smiling. "Pipe down! I know that," he said. Just then Montoya came into the room. He started to smile at me, then he saw Pedro Romero with a big glass of cognac in his hand, sitting laughing between me and a woman with bare shoulders, at a table full of drunks. He did not even nod. Montoya went out of the room. Mike was on his feet proposing a toast. "Let's all drink to--" he began. "Pedro Romero," I said. Everybody stood up. Romero took it very seriously, and we touched glasses and drank it down, I rushing it a little because Mike was trying to make it clear that that was not at all what he was going to drink to. But it went off all right, and Pedro Romero shook hands with every one and he and the critic went out together. "My God! he's a lovely boy," Brett said. "And how I would love to see him get into those clothes. He must use a shoe-horn." "I started to tell him," Mike began. "And Jake kept interrupting me. Why do you interrupt me? Do you think you talk Spanish better than I do?" "Oh, shut up, Mike! Nobody interrupted you." "No, I'd like to get this settled." He turned away from me. "Do you think you amount to something, Cohn? Do you think you belong here among us? People who are out to have a good time? For God's sake don't be so noisy, Cohn!" "Oh, cut it out, Mike," Cohn said. "Do you think Brett wants you here? Do you think you add to the party? Why don't you say something?" "I said all I had to say the other night, Mike." "I'm not one of you literary chaps."<|quote|>Mike stood shakily and leaned against the table.</|quote|>"I'm not clever. But I do know when I'm not wanted. Why don't you see when you're not wanted, Cohn? Go away. Go away, for God's sake. Take that sad Jewish face away. Don't you think I'm right?" He looked at us. "Sure," I said. "Let's all go over to the Iru a." "No. Don't you think I'm right? I love that woman." "Oh, don't start that again. Do shove it along, Michael," Brett said. "Don't you think I'm right, Jake?" Cohn still sat at the table. His face had the sallow, yellow look it got when he was insulted, but somehow he seemed to be enjoying it. The childish, drunken heroics of it. It was his affair with a lady of title. "Jake," Mike said. He was almost crying. "You know I'm right. Listen, you!" He turned to Cohn: "Go away! Go away now!" "But I won't go, Mike," said Cohn. "Then I'll make you!" Mike started toward him around the table. Cohn stood up and took off his glasses. He stood waiting, his face sallow, his hands fairly low, proudly and firmly waiting for the assault, ready to do battle for his lady love. I grabbed Mike. "Come on to the caf ," I said. "You can't hit him here in the hotel." "Good!" said Mike. "Good idea!" We started off. I looked back as Mike stumbled up the stairs and saw Cohn putting his glasses on again. Bill was sitting at the table pouring another glass of Fundador. Brett was sitting looking straight ahead at nothing. Outside on the square it had stopped raining and the moon was trying to get through the clouds. There was a wind blowing. The military band was playing and the crowd was massed on the far side of the square where the fireworks specialist and his son were trying to send up fire balloons. A balloon would start up jerkily, on a great bias, and be torn by the wind or blown against the houses of the square. Some fell into the crowd. The magnesium flared and the fireworks exploded and chased about in the crowd. There was no one dancing in the square. The gravel was too wet. Brett came out with Bill and joined us. We stood in the crowd and watched Don Manuel Orquito, the fireworks king, standing on a little platform, carefully starting the balloons with sticks, standing above the heads of the crowd to launch the balloons off into the wind. The wind brought them all down, and Don Manuel Orquito's face was sweaty in the light of his complicated fireworks that fell into the crowd and charged and chased, sputtering and cracking, between the legs of the people. The people shouted as each new luminous paper bubble careened, caught fire, and fell. "They're razzing Don Manuel," Bill said. "How do you know he's Don Manuel?" Brett said. "His name's on the programme. Don Manuel Orquito, the pirotecnico of esta ciudad." "Globos illuminados," Mike said. "A collection of globos illuminados. That's what the paper said." The wind blew the band music away. "I say, I wish one would go | The Sun Also Rises |
"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross." | Admiral Croft | the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which | of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she | and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa | is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." | commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please." "Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." Anne looked down to hide her smile. "No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or | wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's, and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick." "A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick." "Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for." "I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and I understand that he bears an excellent character." "Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please." "Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." Anne looked down to hide her smile. "No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort." "Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering at it.' No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think." Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther. She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way. "Poor Frederick!" said he at last. "Now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, | with some of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. Ah! the peace has come too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir Archibald! How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We are always meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way." When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to have her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for the Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs Croft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they were fairly ascending Belmont, he began-- "Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk about. That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for. The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her Christian name: I always forget her Christian name." Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the name of "Louisa." "Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week after week. The only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's, and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick." "A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick." "Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for." "I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and I understand that he bears an excellent character." "Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please." "Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." Anne looked down to hide her smile. "No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort." "Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering at it.' No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think." Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther. She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way. "Poor Frederick!" said he at last. "Now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?" Chapter 19 While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither. Before Mrs Croft had written, he was arrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him. Mr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay. They were in Milsom Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady Dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she, Anne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland's, while Mr Elliot stepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance. He soon joined them again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes. Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four with any comfort. Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two. The rain was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr Elliot. But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much thicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the thickest. It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, descried, | then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's, and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick." "A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick." "Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for." "I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and I understand that he bears an excellent character." "Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please." "Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with--<|quote|>"And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross."</|quote|>This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." Anne looked down to hide her smile. "No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort." "Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as say, 'I | Persuasion |
"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud." | The Invisible Man | em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw | the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and | seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, | railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again." "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about" When shall we see His face? "and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud." There s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don t know nothing, "said one." And he ain t never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding. "The thick of the crowd had already passed." Looky there, Ted, "quoth the younger of the detectives, with | so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised what I was running towards." "Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again." "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about" When shall we see His face? "and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud." There s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don t know nothing, "said one." And he ain t never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding. "The thick of the crowd had already passed." Looky there, Ted, "quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed." Why, that s rum, "said the elder." Dashed rum! It s just like the ghost of a foot, ain t it? "He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy | invisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed me was how was I to get out of the scrape I was in." "We crawled past Mudie s, and there a tall woman with five or six yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made off up the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north past the Museum and so get into the quiet district. I was now cruelly chilled, and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as I ran. At the northward corner of the Square a little white dog ran out of the Pharmaceutical Society s offices, and incontinently made for me, nose down." "I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of a man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began barking and leaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly that he was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder as I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised what I was running towards." "Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again." "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about" When shall we see His face? "and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud." There s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don t know nothing, "said one." And he ain t never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding. "The thick of the crowd had already passed." Looky there, Ted, "quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed." Why, that s rum, "said the elder." Dashed rum! It s just like the ghost of a foot, ain t it? "He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement, and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall." "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement." What s up? "asked someone." Feet! Look! Feet running! "Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me." "Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back upon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the | sudden rush for this, and his extending fingers took me with excruciating violence under the ear. I let the whole down with a smash on the cabman, and then, with shouts and the clatter of feet about me, people coming out of shops, vehicles pulling up, I realised what I had done for myself, and cursing my folly, backed against a shop window and prepared to dodge out of the confusion. In a moment I should be wedged into a crowd and inevitably discovered. I pushed by a butcher boy, who luckily did not turn to see the nothingness that shoved him aside, and dodged behind the cab-man s four-wheeler. I do not know how they settled the business. I hurried straight across the road, which was happily clear, and hardly heeding which way I went, in the fright of detection the incident had given me, plunged into the afternoon throng of Oxford Street." "I tried to get into the stream of people, but they were too thick for me, and in a moment my heels were being trodden upon. I took to the gutter, the roughness of which I found painful to my feet, and forthwith the shaft of a crawling hansom dug me forcibly under the shoulder blade, reminding me that I was already bruised severely. I staggered out of the way of the cab, avoided a perambulator by a convulsive movement, and found myself behind the hansom. A happy thought saved me, and as this drove slowly along I followed in its immediate wake, trembling and astonished at the turn of my adventure. And not only trembling, but shivering. It was a bright day in January and I was stark naked and the thin slime of mud that covered the road was freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had not reckoned that, transparent or not, I was still amenable to the weather and all its consequences." "Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got into the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first intimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back growing upon my attention, I drove slowly along Oxford Street and past Tottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in which I had sallied forth ten minutes ago as it is possible to imagine. This invisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed me was how was I to get out of the scrape I was in." "We crawled past Mudie s, and there a tall woman with five or six yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made off up the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north past the Museum and so get into the quiet district. I was now cruelly chilled, and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as I ran. At the northward corner of the Square a little white dog ran out of the Pharmaceutical Society s offices, and incontinently made for me, nose down." "I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of a man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began barking and leaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly that he was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder as I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised what I was running towards." "Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again." "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about" When shall we see His face? "and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud." There s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don t know nothing, "said one." And he ain t never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding. "The thick of the crowd had already passed." Looky there, Ted, "quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed." Why, that s rum, "said the elder." Dashed rum! It s just like the ghost of a foot, ain t it? "He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement, and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall." "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement." What s up? "asked someone." Feet! Look! Feet running! "Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me." "Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back upon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw of the chase was a little group of a dozen people perhaps, studying with infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted from a puddle in Tavistock Square, a footprint as isolated and incomprehensible to them as Crusoe s solitary discovery." "This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs hereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were painful from the cabman s fingers, and the skin of my neck had been scratched by his nails; my feet hurt exceedingly and I was lame from a little cut on one foot. I saw in time a blind man approaching me, and fled limping, for I feared his subtle intuitions. Once or twice accidental collisions occurred and I left people amazed, with unaccountable curses ringing in their ears. Then came something silent and quiet against my face, and across the Square fell a thin veil of slowly falling flakes of snow. I had caught a cold, and do as I would I could not avoid an occasional sneeze. And every dog that came in sight, with its pointing nose and curious sniffing, was a terror to me." "Then came men and boys running, first one and then others, and shouting as they ran. It was a fire. They ran in the direction of my lodging, and looking back down a street I saw a mass of black smoke streaming up above the roofs and telephone wires. It was my lodging burning; my clothes, my apparatus, all my resources indeed, except my cheque-book and the three volumes of memoranda that awaited me in Great Portland Street, were there. Burning! I had burnt my boats if ever a man did! The place was blazing." The Invisible Man paused and thought. Kemp glanced nervously out of the window. "Yes?" he said. "Go on." CHAPTER XXII. IN THE EMPORIUM "So last January, with the beginning of a snowstorm in the air about me and if it settled on me it would betray me! weary, cold, painful, inexpressibly wretched, and still but half convinced of my invisible quality, I began this new life to which | turn of my adventure. And not only trembling, but shivering. It was a bright day in January and I was stark naked and the thin slime of mud that covered the road was freezing. Foolish as it seems to me now, I had not reckoned that, transparent or not, I was still amenable to the weather and all its consequences." "Then suddenly a bright idea came into my head. I ran round and got into the cab. And so, shivering, scared, and sniffing with the first intimations of a cold, and with the bruises in the small of my back growing upon my attention, I drove slowly along Oxford Street and past Tottenham Court Road. My mood was as different from that in which I had sallied forth ten minutes ago as it is possible to imagine. This invisibility indeed! The one thought that possessed me was how was I to get out of the scrape I was in." "We crawled past Mudie s, and there a tall woman with five or six yellow-labelled books hailed my cab, and I sprang out just in time to escape her, shaving a railway van narrowly in my flight. I made off up the roadway to Bloomsbury Square, intending to strike north past the Museum and so get into the quiet district. I was now cruelly chilled, and the strangeness of my situation so unnerved me that I whimpered as I ran. At the northward corner of the Square a little white dog ran out of the Pharmaceutical Society s offices, and incontinently made for me, nose down." "I had never realised it before, but the nose is to the mind of a dog what the eye is to the mind of a seeing man. Dogs perceive the scent of a man moving as men perceive his vision. This brute began barking and leaping, showing, as it seemed to me, only too plainly that he was aware of me. I crossed Great Russell Street, glancing over my shoulder as I did so, and went some way along Montague Street before I realised what I was running towards." "Then I became aware of a blare of music, and looking along the street saw a number of people advancing out of Russell Square, red shirts, and the banner of the Salvation Army to the fore. Such a crowd, chanting in the roadway and scoffing on the pavement, I could not hope to penetrate, and dreading to go back and farther from home again, and deciding on the spur of the moment, I ran up the white steps of a house facing the museum railings, and stood there until the crowd should have passed. Happily the dog stopped at the noise of the band too, hesitated, and turned tail, running back to Bloomsbury Square again." "On came the band, bawling with unconscious irony some hymn about" When shall we see His face? "and it seemed an interminable time to me before the tide of the crowd washed along the pavement by me. Thud, thud, thud, came the drum with a vibrating resonance, and for the moment I did not notice two urchins stopping at the railings by me." See em, "said one." See what?<|quote|>"said the other. Why them footmarks bare. Like what you makes in mud."</|quote|>"I looked down and saw the youngsters had stopped and were gaping at the muddy footmarks I had left behind me up the newly whitened steps. The passing people elbowed and jostled them, but their confounded intelligence was arrested. Thud, thud, thud, when, thud, shall we see, thud, his face, thud, thud." There s a barefoot man gone up them steps, or I don t know nothing, "said one." And he ain t never come down again. And his foot was a-bleeding. "The thick of the crowd had already passed." Looky there, Ted, "quoth the younger of the detectives, with the sharpness of surprise in his voice, and pointed straight to my feet. I looked down and saw at once the dim suggestion of their outline sketched in splashes of mud. For a moment I was paralysed." Why, that s rum, "said the elder." Dashed rum! It s just like the ghost of a foot, ain t it? "He hesitated and advanced with outstretched hand. A man pulled up short to see what he was catching, and then a girl. In another moment he would have touched me. Then I saw what to do. I made a step, the boy started back with an exclamation, and with a rapid movement I swung myself over into the portico of the next house. But the smaller boy was sharp-eyed enough to follow the movement, and before I was well down the steps and upon the pavement, he had recovered from his momentary astonishment and was shouting out that the feet had gone over the wall." "They rushed round and saw my new footmarks flash into being on the lower step and upon the pavement." What s up? "asked someone." Feet! Look! Feet running! "Everybody in the road, except my three pursuers, was pouring along after the Salvation Army, and this blow not only impeded me but them. There was an eddy of surprise and interrogation. At the cost of bowling over one young fellow I got through, and in another moment I was rushing headlong round the circuit of Russell Square, with six or seven astonished people following my footmarks. There was no time for explanation, or else the whole host would have been after me." "Twice I doubled round corners, thrice I crossed the road and came back upon my tracks, and then, as my feet grew hot and dry, the damp impressions began to fade. At last I had a breathing space and rubbed my feet clean with my hands, and so got away altogether. The last I saw of the chase was a little group of a dozen people perhaps, studying with infinite perplexity a slowly drying footprint that had resulted from a puddle in Tavistock Square, a footprint as isolated and incomprehensible to them as Crusoe s solitary discovery." "This running warmed me to a certain extent, and I went on with a better courage through the maze of less frequented roads that runs hereabouts. My back had now become very stiff and sore, my tonsils were painful from the cabman s fingers, and | The Invisible Man |
"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." | George Wickham | his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of | will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened | speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the | his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of | express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the | "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have | set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist. "I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me." "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!" After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful." "I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can hardly be just to him." Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his father!"--She could have added, "A young man too, like _you_, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"--but she contented herself with "And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"" "We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_ father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips, appears to do so much | could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head. "I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."<|quote|>"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."</|quote|>Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, | Pride And Prejudice |
"What am _I_ to do?" | Mr. Thomas Marvel | what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It | I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will | s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. | I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ | voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk | Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the windows in the "Coach and Horses," and then he thrust a street lamp through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins cottage on the Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard, seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely. But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured out again into the desolation of Iping street. CHAPTER XIII. MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis. "I wish I was dead," said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight | him as he was halfway up the inn steps he heard a sudden yell of rage, rising sharply out of the confusion of cries, and a sounding smack in someone s face. He recognised the voice as that of the Invisible Man, and the note was that of a man suddenly infuriated by a painful blow. In another moment Mr. Cuss was back in the parlour. "He s coming back, Bunting!" he said, rushing in. "Save yourself!" Mr. Bunting was standing in the window engaged in an attempt to clothe himself in the hearth-rug and a _West Surrey Gazette_. "Who s coming?" he said, so startled that his costume narrowly escaped disintegration. "Invisible Man," said Cuss, and rushed on to the window. "We d better clear out from here! He s fighting mad! Mad!" In another moment he was out in the yard. "Good heavens!" said Mr. Bunting, hesitating between two horrible alternatives. He heard a frightful struggle in the passage of the inn, and his decision was made. He clambered out of the window, adjusted his costume hastily, and fled up the village as fast as his fat little legs would carry him. From the moment when the Invisible Man screamed with rage and Mr. Bunting made his memorable flight up the village, it became impossible to give a consecutive account of affairs in Iping. Possibly the Invisible Man s original intention was simply to cover Marvel s retreat with the clothes and books. But his temper, at no time very good, seems to have gone completely at some chance blow, and forthwith he set to smiting and overthrowing, for the mere satisfaction of hurting. You must figure the street full of running figures, of doors slamming and fights for hiding-places. You must figure the tumult suddenly striking on the unstable equilibrium of old Fletcher s planks and two chairs with cataclysmic results. You must figure an appalled couple caught dismally in a swing. And then the whole tumultuous rush has passed and the Iping street with its gauds and flags is deserted save for the still raging unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown canvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall. Everywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and the only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised eyebrow in the corner of a window pane. The Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the windows in the "Coach and Horses," and then he thrust a street lamp through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins cottage on the Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard, seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely. But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured out again into the desolation of Iping street. CHAPTER XIII. MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis. "I wish I was dead," said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE Ten o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pine-woods beyond Bramblehurst, in accordance with a change in the plans of the Invisible Man. Mr. Marvel sat on the bench, and although no one took the slightest notice of him, his agitation remained at fever heat. His hands would go ever and again to his various pockets with a curious nervous fumbling. When he had been sitting for the best part of an hour, however, an elderly mariner, carrying a newspaper, came out of the inn and sat down beside him. "Pleasant day," said the mariner. Mr. Marvel glanced about him with something very like terror. "Very," he said. "Just seasonable weather for the time of year," said the mariner, taking no denial. "Quite," said Mr. Marvel. The mariner produced a toothpick, and (saving his regard) was engrossed thereby for some minutes. His eyes meanwhile were at liberty to examine Mr. Marvel s dusty figure, and the books beside him. As he had approached Mr. Marvel he had heard a sound like the dropping of coins into a pocket. He was struck by the contrast of Mr. Marvel s appearance with this suggestion of opulence. Thence his mind wandered back again to a topic that had taken a curiously firm hold of his imagination. "Books?" he said suddenly, noisily finishing with the toothpick. Mr. Marvel started and looked at them. "Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, they re books." "There s some extra-ordinary things in books," said the mariner. "I believe you," said Mr. Marvel. "And some extra-ordinary things out of em," said the mariner. "True likewise," said Mr. Marvel. He eyed his interlocutor, and then glanced about | slamming and fights for hiding-places. You must figure the tumult suddenly striking on the unstable equilibrium of old Fletcher s planks and two chairs with cataclysmic results. You must figure an appalled couple caught dismally in a swing. And then the whole tumultuous rush has passed and the Iping street with its gauds and flags is deserted save for the still raging unseen, and littered with cocoanuts, overthrown canvas screens, and the scattered stock in trade of a sweetstuff stall. Everywhere there is a sound of closing shutters and shoving bolts, and the only visible humanity is an occasional flitting eye under a raised eyebrow in the corner of a window pane. The Invisible Man amused himself for a little while by breaking all the windows in the "Coach and Horses," and then he thrust a street lamp through the parlour window of Mrs. Gribble. He it must have been who cut the telegraph wire to Adderdean just beyond Higgins cottage on the Adderdean road. And after that, as his peculiar qualities allowed, he passed out of human perceptions altogether, and he was neither heard, seen, nor felt in Iping any more. He vanished absolutely. But it was the best part of two hours before any human being ventured out again into the desolation of Iping street. CHAPTER XIII. MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue; he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under the touch of unseen hands. "If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to give me the slip again" "Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder s a mass of bruises as it is." "On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you." "I didn t try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn t. I didn t know the blessed turning, that was all! How the devil was I to know the blessed turning? As it is, I ve been knocked about" "You ll get knocked about a great deal more if you don t mind," said the Voice, and Mr. Marvel abruptly became silent. He blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were eloquent of despair. "It s bad enough to let these floundering yokels explode my little secret, without _your_ cutting off with my books. It s lucky for some of them they cut and ran when they did! Here am I ... No one knew I was invisible! And now what am I to do?"<|quote|>"What am _I_ to do?"</|quote|>asked Marvel, _sotto voce_. "It s all about. It will be in the papers! Everybody will be looking for me; everyone on their guard" The Voice broke off into vivid curses and ceased. The despair of Mr. Marvel s face deepened, and his pace slackened. "Go on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel s face assumed a greyish tint between the ruddier patches. "Don t drop those books, stupid," said the Voice, sharply overtaking him. "The fact is," said the Voice, "I shall have to make use of you.... You re a poor tool, but I must." "I m a _miserable_ tool," said Marvel. "You are," said the Voice. "I m the worst possible tool you could have," said Marvel. "I m not strong," he said after a discouraging silence. "I m not over strong," he repeated. "No?" "And my heart s weak. That little business I pulled it through, of course but bless you! I could have dropped." "Well?" "I haven t the nerve and strength for the sort of thing you want." "_I ll_ stimulate you." "I wish you wouldn t. I wouldn t like to mess up your plans, you know. But I might out of sheer funk and misery." "You d better not," said the Voice, with quiet emphasis. "I wish I was dead," said Marvel. "It ain t justice," he said; "you must admit.... It seems to me I ve a perfect right" "_Get_ on!" said the Voice. Mr. Marvel mended his pace, and for a time they went in silence again. "It s devilish hard," said Mr. Marvel. This was quite ineffectual. He tried another tack. "What do I make by it?" he began again in a tone of unendurable wrong. "Oh! _shut up_!" said the Voice, with sudden amazing vigour. "I ll see to you all right. You do what you re told. You ll do it all right. You re a fool and all that, but you ll do" "I tell you, sir, I m not the man for it. Respectfully but it _is_ so" "If you don t shut up I shall twist your wrist again," said the Invisible Man. "I want to think." Presently two oblongs of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the square tower of a church loomed through the gloaming. "I shall keep my hand on your shoulder," said the Voice, "all through the village. Go straight through and try no foolery. It will be the worse for you if you do." "I know that," sighed Mr. Marvel, "I know all that." The unhappy-looking figure in the obsolete silk hat passed up the street of the little village with his burdens, and vanished into the gathering darkness beyond the lights of the windows. CHAPTER XIV. AT PORT STOWE Ten o clock the next morning found Mr. Marvel, unshaven, dirty, and travel-stained, sitting with the books beside him and his hands deep in his pockets, looking very weary, nervous, and uncomfortable, and inflating his cheeks at infrequent intervals, on the bench outside a little inn on the outskirts of Port Stowe. Beside him were the books, but now they were tied with string. The bundle had been abandoned in the pine-woods | The Invisible Man |
"You were going to say ?" | Mr. Hastings | game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned | young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the | you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather | own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you | but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success. John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and | "Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?" I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own. Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother. Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success. John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car. "Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities." The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking | The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie CHAPTER I. I GO TO STYLES The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist. I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair. I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother's place in Essex. We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there. "The mater will be delighted to see you again after all those years," he added. "Your mother keeps well?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?" I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own. Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother. Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success. John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car. "Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities." The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now." "Cynthia! That's not your wife?" "No, Cynthia is a prot g e of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away." As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach. "Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings Miss Howard." Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. "Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful." "I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded. "Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later." "You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day inside or out?" "Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house." "Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day." The labourer is worthy of his hire', "you know. Come and be refreshed." "Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you." She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us. "My wife, Hastings," said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny | been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother. Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success. John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully. "Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie you remember Evie?" "No." "Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."<|quote|>"You were going to say ?"</|quote|>"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary you know how she's always running a hundred societies?" I nodded. "Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are she is her own mistress, and she's married him." "It must be a difficult situation for you all." "Difficult! It's damnable!" Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car. "Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities." The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings." "My dear fellow, that's just what I want." "Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now." "Cynthia! That's not your wife?" "No, Cynthia is a prot g e of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"Do," | Lilia | shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so | to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with | going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t | him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, | me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella," said Philip in Italian. "Mrs. Herriton is rather agitated, but there is no reason we should not be calm. Might I offer you a cigarette? Please sit down." He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained standing in the full glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse to such assistance, got his own face into shadow. For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino, and it also gave him time to collect himself. He would not this | he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella," said Philip in Italian. "Mrs. Herriton is rather agitated, but there is no reason we should not be calm. Might I offer you a cigarette? Please sit down." He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained standing in the full glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse to such assistance, got his own face into shadow. For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino, and it also gave him time to collect himself. He would not this time fall into the error of blustering, which he had caught so unaccountably from Lilia. He would make his power felt by restraint. Why, when he looked up to begin, was Gino convulsed with silent laughter? It vanished immediately; but he became nervous, and was even more pompous than he intended. "Signor Carella, I will be frank with you. I have come to prevent you marrying Mrs. Herriton, because I see you will both be unhappy together. She is English, you are Italian; she is accustomed to one thing, you to another. And--pardon me if I say it--she is rich and you are poor." "I am not marrying her because she is rich," was the sulky reply. "I never suggested that for a moment," said Philip courteously. "You are honourable, I am sure; but are you wise? And let me remind you that we want her with us at home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home will be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our thanks--and you will not be without a reward for your disappointment." "Reward--what reward?" He bent over the back of a chair and looked earnestly at Philip. They were coming | But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino s father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don t suppose you ll agree. And I should like you to know that Gino s uncle is a priest--the same as a clergyman at home." Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him with, "Well, his cousin s a lawyer at Rome." "What kind of lawyer ?" "Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots to do and can never get away." The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:-- "The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the servants dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott." "Caroline! Why blame her? What s all this to do with Caroline?" "Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella," said Philip in Italian. "Mrs. Herriton is rather agitated, but there is no reason we should not be calm. Might I offer you a cigarette? Please sit down." He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained standing in the full glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse to such assistance, got his own face into shadow. For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino, and it also gave him time to collect himself. He would not this time fall into the error of blustering, which he had caught so unaccountably from Lilia. He would make his power felt by restraint. Why, when he looked up to begin, was Gino convulsed with silent laughter? It vanished immediately; but he became nervous, and was even more pompous than he intended. "Signor Carella, I will be frank with you. I have come to prevent you marrying Mrs. Herriton, because I see you will both be unhappy together. She is English, you are Italian; she is accustomed to one thing, you to another. And--pardon me if I say it--she is rich and you are poor." "I am not marrying her because she is rich," was the sulky reply. "I never suggested that for a moment," said Philip courteously. "You are honourable, I am sure; but are you wise? And let me remind you that we want her with us at home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home will be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our thanks--and you will not be without a reward for your disappointment." "Reward--what reward?" He bent over the back of a chair and looked earnestly at Philip. They were coming to terms pretty quickly. Poor Lilia! Philip said slowly, "What about a thousand lire?" His soul went forth into one exclamation, and then he was silent, with gaping lips. Philip would have given double: he had expected a bargain. "You can have them tonight." He found words, and said, "It is too late." "But why?" "Because--" His voice broke. Philip watched his face,--a face without refinement perhaps, but not without expression,--watched it quiver and re-form and dissolve from emotion into emotion. There was avarice at one moment, and insolence, and politeness, and stupidity, and cunning--and let us hope that sometimes there was love. But gradually one emotion dominated, the most unexpected of all; for his chest began to heave and his eyes to wink and his mouth to twitch, and suddenly he stood erect and roared forth his whole being in one tremendous laugh. Philip sprang up, and Gino, who had flung wide his arms to let the glorious creature go, took him by the shoulders and shook him, and said, "Because we are married--married--married as soon as I knew you were, coming. There was no time to tell you. Oh. oh! You have come all the way for nothing. Oh! And oh, your generosity!" Suddenly he became grave, and said, "Please pardon me; I am rude. I am no better than a peasant, and I--" Here he saw Philip s face, and it was too much for him. He gasped and exploded and crammed his hands into his mouth and spat them out in another explosion, and gave Philip an aimless push, which toppled him on to the bed. He uttered a horrified Oh! and then gave up, and bolted away down the passage, shrieking like a child, to tell the joke to his wife. For a time Philip lay on the bed, pretending to himself that he was hurt grievously. He could scarcely see for temper, and in the passage he ran against Miss Abbott, who promptly burst into tears. "I sleep at the Globo," he told her, "and start for Sawston tomorrow morning early. He has assaulted me. I could prosecute him. But shall not." "I can t stop here," she sobbed. "I daren t stop here. You will have to take me with you!" Chapter 3 Opposite the Volterra gate of Monteriano, outside the city, is a very respectable white-washed mud wall, with a coping of | to--" He saw that the answer would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at home--think of Irma! And I ll also say think of us; for you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a daughter." She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, "I can t break it off now!" "Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a bully. He s merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees he has a man to deal with." What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said-- "For once in my life I ll thank you to leave me alone. I ll thank your mother too. For twelve years you ve trained me and tortured me, and I ll stand it no more. Do you think I m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! Bully? Insolent boy? Who s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world now, for I ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!" The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. "Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I m feeble. But you re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he ll be sorry you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell him so now."<|quote|>"Do,"</|quote|>she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!" Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the door. "Fra Filippo s blood s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he doesn t hurt you!" She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip s walk, and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced out of the room. Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes. "Please sit down, Signor Carella," said Philip in Italian. "Mrs. Herriton is rather agitated, but there is no reason we should not be calm. Might I offer you a cigarette? Please sit down." He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained standing in the full glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse to such assistance, got his own face into shadow. For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino, and it also gave him time to collect himself. He would not this time fall into the error of blustering, which he had caught so unaccountably from Lilia. He would make his power felt by restraint. Why, when he looked up to begin, was Gino convulsed with silent laughter? It vanished immediately; but he became nervous, and was even more pompous than he intended. "Signor Carella, I will be frank with you. I have come to prevent you marrying Mrs. Herriton, because I see you will both be unhappy together. She is English, you are Italian; she is accustomed to one thing, you to another. And--pardon me if I say it--she is rich and you are poor." "I am not marrying her because she is rich," was the sulky reply. "I never suggested that for a moment," said Philip courteously. "You are honourable, I am sure; but are you wise? And let me remind you that we want her with us at home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home will be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our thanks--and you will not be without a reward for your disappointment." "Reward--what reward?" He bent over the back of a chair and looked earnestly at Philip. They were coming to terms pretty quickly. Poor Lilia! Philip said slowly, "What about a thousand lire?" His soul went forth into one exclamation, and then he was silent, with gaping lips. Philip would have given double: he had expected a bargain. "You can have them tonight." He found words, and said, "It is too late." "But why?" "Because--" His voice broke. Philip watched his face,--a face without refinement perhaps, but not without expression,--watched it quiver and re-form and dissolve from emotion into emotion. There was avarice at one moment, and insolence, and politeness, and stupidity, and cunning--and let us hope that sometimes there was love. But gradually one emotion dominated, the most unexpected of all; for his chest began to heave and his eyes to wink and his mouth to twitch, and suddenly he stood erect and roared forth his whole being in one tremendous laugh. Philip sprang up, and Gino, | Where Angels Fear To Tread |
"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night." | Basil Hallward | I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," | you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems | coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love | whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art." "They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will want | unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art." "They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink | the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her. She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art." "They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?" "Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah! can t you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. "Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together. A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some groans. As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an | first, but I admit it now. The gods made Sibyl Vane for you. Without her you would have been incomplete." "Thanks, Basil," answered Dorian Gray, pressing his hand. "I knew that you would understand me. Harry is so cynical, he terrifies me. But here is the orchestra. It is quite dreadful, but it only lasts for about five minutes. Then the curtain rises, and you will see the girl to whom I am going to give all my life, to whom I have given everything that is good in me." A quarter of an hour afterwards, amidst an extraordinary turmoil of applause, Sibyl Vane stepped on to the stage. Yes, she was certainly lovely to look at one of the loveliest creatures, Lord Henry thought, that he had ever seen. There was something of the fawn in her shy grace and startled eyes. A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house. She stepped back a few paces and her lips seemed to tremble. Basil Hallward leaped to his feet and began to applaud. Motionless, and as one in a dream, sat Dorian Gray, gazing at her. Lord Henry peered through his glasses, murmuring, "Charming! charming!" The scene was the hall of Capulet s house, and Romeo in his pilgrim s dress had entered with Mercutio and his other friends. The band, such as it was, struck up a few bars of music, and the dance began. Through the crowd of ungainly, shabbily dressed actors, Sibyl Vane moved like a creature from a finer world. Her body swayed, while she danced, as a plant sways in the water. The curves of her throat were the curves of a white lily. Her hands seemed to be made of cool ivory. Yet she was curiously listless. She showed no sign of joy when her eyes rested on Romeo. The few words she had to speak Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers kiss with the brief dialogue that follows, were spoken in a thoroughly artificial manner. The voice was exquisite, but from the point of view of tone it was absolutely false. It was wrong in colour. It took away all the life from the verse. It made the passion unreal. Dorian Gray grew pale as he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her. She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art." "They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?" "Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah! can t you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. "Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together. A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some groans. As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried. "Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her in amazement. "Horribly! It was dreadful. Are you ill? You have no idea what it was. You have no idea what I suffered." The girl smiled. "Dorian," she answered, lingering over his name with long-drawn music in her voice, as though it were sweeter than honey to the red petals of her mouth. "Dorian, you should have understood. But you understand now, don t you?" "Understand what?" he asked, angrily. "Why I was so bad to-night. Why I shall always be bad. Why I shall never act well again." He shrugged his shoulders. "You are ill, I suppose. When you are ill you shouldn t act. You make yourself ridiculous. My friends were bored. I was bored." She seemed not to listen to him. She was transfigured with joy. An ecstasy of happiness dominated her. "Dorian, Dorian," she cried, "before I knew you, acting was the one reality of my life. It was only in the theatre that I lived. I thought that it was all true. I was Rosalind one night and Portia the other. The joy of Beatrice was my joy, and the sorrows of Cordelia were mine also. I believed in everything. The common people who acted with me seemed to me to be godlike. The painted scenes were my world. I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real. You came oh, my beautiful love! and you freed my soul from prison. You taught me what reality really is. To-night, for the first time in my life, I saw through the hollowness, the sham, the silliness of the empty pageant in which I had always played. To-night, for the first time, I became conscious that the Romeo was hideous, and old, and painted, that the moonlight in the orchard was false, that the scenery was vulgar, and that the words I had to speak were unreal, were not my words, were not what I wanted to say. You had brought me something higher, something of which all art is but a reflection. You had made me understand what love really is. My love! My love! Prince | he watched her. He was puzzled and anxious. Neither of his friends dared to say anything to him. She seemed to them to be absolutely incompetent. They were horribly disappointed. Yet they felt that the true test of any Juliet is the balcony scene of the second act. They waited for that. If she failed there, there was nothing in her. She looked charming as she came out in the moonlight. That could not be denied. But the staginess of her acting was unbearable, and grew worse as she went on. Her gestures became absurdly artificial. She overemphasized everything that she had to say. The beautiful passage Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night was declaimed with the painful precision of a schoolgirl who has been taught to recite by some second-rate professor of elocution. When she leaned over the balcony and came to those wonderful lines Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night: It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say, "It lightens." Sweet, good-night! This bud of love by summer s ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet she spoke the words as though they conveyed no meaning to her. It was not nervousness. Indeed, so far from being nervous, she was absolutely self-contained. It was simply bad art. She was a complete failure. Even the common uneducated audience of the pit and gallery lost their interest in the play. They got restless, and began to talk loudly and to whistle. The Jew manager, who was standing at the back of the dress-circle, stamped and swore with rage. The only person unmoved was the girl herself. When the second act was over, there came a storm of hisses, and Lord Henry got up from his chair and put on his coat. "She is quite beautiful, Dorian," he said, "but she can t act. Let us go." "I am going to see the play through," answered the lad, in a hard bitter voice. "I am awfully sorry that I have made you waste an evening, Harry. I apologize to you both."<|quote|>"My dear Dorian, I should think Miss Vane was ill," interrupted Hallward. "We will come some other night."</|quote|>"I wish she were ill," he rejoined. "But she seems to me to be simply callous and cold. She has entirely altered. Last night she was a great artist. This evening she is merely a commonplace mediocre actress." "Don t talk like that about any one you love, Dorian. Love is a more wonderful thing than art." "They are both simply forms of imitation," remarked Lord Henry. "But do let us go. Dorian, you must not stay here any longer. It is not good for one s morals to see bad acting. Besides, I don t suppose you will want your wife to act, so what does it matter if she plays Juliet like a wooden doll? She is very lovely, and if she knows as little about life as she does about acting, she will be a delightful experience. There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing. Good heavens, my dear boy, don t look so tragic! The secret of remaining young is never to have an emotion that is unbecoming. Come to the club with Basil and myself. We will smoke cigarettes and drink to the beauty of Sibyl Vane. She is beautiful. What more can you want?" "Go away, Harry," cried the lad. "I want to be alone. Basil, you must go. Ah! can t you see that my heart is breaking?" The hot tears came to his eyes. His lips trembled, and rushing to the back of the box, he leaned up against the wall, hiding his face in his hands. "Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together. A few moments afterwards the footlights flared up and the curtain rose on the third act. Dorian Gray went back to his seat. He looked pale, and proud, and indifferent. The play dragged on, and seemed interminable. Half of the audience went out, tramping in heavy boots and laughing. The whole thing was a _fiasco_. The last act was played to almost empty benches. The curtain went down on a titter and some groans. As soon as it was over, Dorian Gray rushed behind the scenes into the greenroom. The girl was standing there alone, with a look of triumph on her face. Her eyes were lit with an exquisite fire. There was a radiance about her. Her parted lips were smiling over some secret of their own. When he entered, she looked at him, and an expression of infinite joy came over her. "How badly I acted to-night, Dorian!" she cried. "Horribly!" he answered, gazing at her | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say" | Stephen Blackpool | the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that | undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can | comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If | mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was | marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a | he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an' I want if yo will be so good t' know the law that helps me." "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. "There _is_ such a law." Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. "But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money." "How much might that be?" Stephen calmly asked. "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament | his plate, and leaning back. "Fire away!" "I ha' coom," Stephen began, raising his eyes from the floor, after a moment's consideration, "to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. I were married on Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin, long and dree. She were a young lass pretty enow wi' good accounts of herseln. Well! She went bad soon. Not along of me. Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her." "I have heard all this before," said Mr. Bounderby. "She took to drinking, left off working, sold the furniture, pawned the clothes, and played old Gooseberry." "I were patient wi' her." (" "The more fool you, I think," said Mr. Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.) "I were very patient wi' her. I tried to wean her fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home, many's the time, and found all vanished as I had in the world, and her without a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha' dun 't not once, not twice twenty time!" Every line in his face deepened as he said it, and put in its affecting evidence of the suffering he had undergone. "From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She left me. She disgraced herseln everyways, bitter and bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back. What could I do t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nights long, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th' brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' no more on't. I ha' bore that much, that I were owd when I were young." Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and shook her head, as much as to say, "The great know trouble as well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in My direction." "I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These five year I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrils about me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, but not ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' my life. Last night, I went home. There she lay upon my har-stone! There she is!" In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man. In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the time his usual stoop upon him; his pondering face addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression on it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if his mind were set upon unravelling something very difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action, very earnestly emphasizing what he said: not least so when it always paused, a little bent, but not withdrawn, as he paused. "I was acquainted with all this, you know," said Mr. Bounderby, "except the last clause, long ago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You had better have been satisfied as you were, and not have got married. However, it's too late to say that." "Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years?" asked Mrs. Sparsit. "You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal marriage in point of years, this unlucky job of yours?" said Mr. Bounderby. "Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she were twenty nighbut." "Indeed, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an' I want if yo will be so good t' know the law that helps me." "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. "There _is_ such a law." Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. "But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money." "How much might that be?" Stephen calmly asked. "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a thousand to fifteen hundred pound," said Mr. Bounderby. "Perhaps twice the money." "There's no other law?" "Certainly not." "Why then, sir," said Stephen, turning white, and motioning with that right hand of his, as if he gave everything to the four winds, ""_tis_ a muddle. 'Tis just a muddle a'toogether, an' the sooner I am dead, the better." (Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety of the people.) "Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, my good fellow," said Mr. Bounderby, "about things you don't understand; and don't you call the Institutions of your country a muddle, or you'll get yourself into a real muddle one of these fine mornings. The institutions of your country are not your piece-work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your piece-work. You didn't take your wife for fast and for loose; but for better for worse. If she has turned out worse why, all we have got to say is, she might have turned out better." "'Tis a muddle," said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. "'Tis a' a muddle!" "Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, my good fellow," said Mr. Bounderby, "about things you don't understand; and don't you call the Institutions of your country a muddle, or you'll get yourself into a real muddle one of these fine mornings. The institutions of your country are not your piece-work, and the only thing you have got to do, is, to mind your piece-work. You didn't take your wife for fast and for loose; but for better for worse. If she has turned out worse why, all we have got to say is, she might have turned out better." "' "Tis a muddle," said Stephen, shaking his head as he moved to the door. "'Tis a' a muddle!" "Now, I'll tell you what!" Mr. Bounderby resumed, as a valedictory address. "With what I shall call your unhallowed opinions, you have been quite shocking this lady: who, as I have already told you, is a born lady, and who, as I have not already told you, has had her own marriage misfortunes to the tune of tens of thousands of pounds tens of Thousands of Pounds!" (he repeated it with great relish). | said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief, with great placidity. "I inferred, from its being so miserable a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in point of years." Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in a side-long way that had an odd sheepishness about it. He fortified himself with a little more sherry. "Well? Why don't you go on?" he then asked, turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool. "I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to be ridded o' this woman." Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a moral shock. "What do you mean?" said Bounderby, getting up to lean his back against the chimney-piece. "What are you talking about? You took her for better for worse." "I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that I ha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th' best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, I should ha' gone battering mad." "He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom he speaks, I fear, sir," observed Mrs. Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of the people.<|quote|>"I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I were a coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that great folk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) are not bonded together for better for worst so fast, but that they can be set free fro' _their_ misfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen. When they dunnot agree, for that their tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' one kind an' another in their houses, above a bit, and they can live asunders. We fok ha' only one room, and we can't. When that won't do, they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"</|quote|>"This for yo' an' that for me," "an' they can go their separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that, they can be set free for smaller wrongs than mine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and I want t' know how?" "No how," returned Mr. Bounderby. "If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law to punish me?" "Of course there is." "If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her saying such a thing could be, which it never could or would, an' her so good there's a law to punish me, in every innocent child belonging to me?" "Of course there is." "Now, a' God's name," said Stephen Blackpool, "show me the law to help me!" "Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life," said Mr. Bounderby, "and and it must be kept up." "No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up that way. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way. I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt, but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to year wi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, every Sessions and you read too I know it! with dismay how th' supposed unpossibility o' ever getting unchained from one another, at any price, on any terms, brings blood upon this land, and brings many common married fok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Let us ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievous case, an' I want if yo will be so good t' know the law that helps me." "Now, I tell you what!" said Mr. Bounderby, putting his hands in his pockets. "There _is_ such a law." Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never wandering in his attention, gave a nod. "But it's not for you at all. It costs money. It costs a mint of money." "How much might that be?" Stephen calmly asked. "Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commons with a suit, and you'd have to go to a court of Common Law with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords with a suit, and you'd have to get an Act of Parliament to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if it was a case of very plain sailing), I suppose from a | Hard Times |
"Well?" | Bunting | and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never | those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, | it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? | thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, | he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." | Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him " Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He | sang it at the schoolroom concert (in aid of the church lamps), and thereafter whenever one or two of the villagers were gathered together and the stranger appeared, a bar or so of this tune, more or less sharp or flat, was whistled in the midst of them. Also belated little children would call "Bogey Man!" after him, and make off tremulously elated. Cuss, the general practitioner, was devoured by curiosity. The bandages excited his professional interest, the report of the thousand and one bottles aroused his jealous regard. All through April and May he coveted an opportunity of talking to the stranger, and at last, towards Whitsuntide, he could stand it no longer, but hit upon the subscription-list for a village nurse as an excuse. He was surprised to find that Mr. Hall did not know his guest s name. "He give a name," said Mrs. Hall an assertion which was quite unfounded "but I didn t rightly hear it." She thought it seemed so silly not to know the man s name. Cuss rapped at the parlour door and entered. There was a fairly audible imprecation from within. "Pardon my intrusion," said Cuss, and then the door closed and cut Mrs. Hall off from the rest of the conversation. She could hear the murmur of voices for the next ten minutes, then a cry of surprise, a stirring of feet, a chair flung aside, a bark of laughter, quick steps to the door, and Cuss appeared, his face white, his eyes staring over his shoulder. He left the door open behind him, and without looking at her strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood. The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again. Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him " Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the sincerity of his panic. He turned round in a helpless way and took a second glass of the excellent vicar s very inferior sherry. "When I hit his cuff," said Cuss, "I tell you, it felt exactly like hitting an arm. And there wasn t an arm! There wasn t the ghost of an arm!" Mr. Bunting thought it over. He looked suspiciously at Cuss. "It s a most remarkable story," he said. He looked very wise and grave indeed. "It s really," said Mr. Bunting with judicial emphasis, "a most remarkable story." CHAPTER V. THE BURGLARY AT THE VICARAGE The facts of the burglary at the vicarage came to us chiefly through the medium of the vicar and his wife. It occurred in the small hours of Whit Monday, the day devoted in Iping to the Club festivities. Mrs. Bunting, it seems, woke up suddenly in the stillness that comes before the dawn, with the strong impression that the door of their bedroom had opened and closed. She did not arouse her husband at first, but sat up in bed listening. She then distinctly heard the pad, pad, pad of bare feet coming out of the adjoining dressing-room and walking along the passage towards the staircase. As soon as she felt assured of this, she aroused the Rev. Mr. Bunting as quietly as possible. He did not strike a light, but putting on his spectacles, her dressing-gown and his bath slippers, he went out on the landing to listen. He heard quite distinctly a fumbling going on at his study desk down-stairs, and then a violent sneeze. At that he returned to his bedroom, armed himself with the most obvious weapon, the poker, and descended the staircase as noiselessly as possible. Mrs. Bunting came out on the landing. The hour was about four, and the ultimate darkness of the night was past. There was a faint shimmer of light in the hall, but the study doorway yawned impenetrably black. Everything was still except the faint creaking of the stairs under Mr. Bunting s tread, and the slight movements in the study. Then something snapped, the drawer was opened, and there was a rustle of papers. Then came an imprecation, and a match was struck and the study was flooded with yellow light. Mr. Bunting was now in the hall, and through the crack of the door he could see the desk and the open drawer and a candle burning on the desk. But the robber he could not see. He stood there in the hall undecided what to do, and Mrs. Bunting, her face white and intent, crept slowly downstairs after him. One thing kept Mr. Bunting s courage; the persuasion that this burglar was a resident in the village. They heard the chink of money, and realised that the robber had found | the village to Bunting the vicar. "Am I mad?" Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study. "Do I look like an insane person?" "What s happened?" said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the loose sheets of his forth-coming sermon. "That chap at the inn" "Well?" "Give me something to drink," said Cuss, and he sat down. When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry the only drink the good vicar had available he told him of the interview he had just had. "Went in," he gasped, "and began to demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He d stuck his hands in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair. Sniffed. I told him I d heard he took an interest in scientific things. He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that! I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open. Bottles chemicals everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands, and a smell of evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he d consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he was. A long research? Got quite cross." A damnable long research, "said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak." Oh, "said I. And out came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable prescription what for he wouldn t say. Was it medical?" Damn you! What are you fishing after? "I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough. He resumed. He d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker, and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward. Rushed towards it just as it whisked up the chimney. So! Just at that point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm." "Well?" "No hand just an empty sleeve." Lord! "I thought," _that s_ a deformity! Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, "I thought," there s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up and open, if there s nothing in it? "There was nothing in it, I tell you. Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear of the cloth." Good God! "I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve."<|quote|>"Well?"</|quote|>"That s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve back in his pocket quickly." I was saying, "said he," that there was the prescription burning, wasn t I? "Interrogative cough." How the devil, "said I," can you move an empty sleeve like that? Empty sleeve? Yes, "said I," an empty sleeve. " " It s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve? "He stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn t flinch, though I m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those blinkers, aren t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to you." " You said it was an empty sleeve? "he said. Certainly, I said. At staring and saying nothing a barefaced man, unspectacled, starts scratch. Then very quietly he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again, and raised his arm towards me as though he would show it to me again. He did it very, very slowly. I looked at it. Seemed an age. Well? said I, clearing my throat, there s nothing in it." "Had to say something. I was beginning to feel frightened. I could see right down it. He extended it straight towards me, slowly, slowly just like that until the cuff was six inches from my face. Queer thing to see an empty sleeve come at you like that! And then" "Well?" "Something exactly like a finger and thumb it felt nipped my nose." Bunting began to laugh. "There wasn t anything there!" said Cuss, his voice running up into a shriek at the "there." "It s all very well for you to laugh, but I tell you I was so startled, I hit his cuff hard, and turned around, and cut out of the room I left him " Cuss stopped. There was no mistaking the | The Invisible Man |
"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall." | Bill Sikes | tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, | "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for | room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The | prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and | desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, | "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion | stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity. "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his togs! Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!" "Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for supper." At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed, and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. "Hallo, what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized the note. "That's mine, Fagin." "No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the books." "If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined air; "mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back again." The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back. "Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes. "This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew. "Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it here!" With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief. "That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, sell 'em." "They're very pretty," said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young master." The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. "I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the boy, and what more would you have? Let him be let him be or I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my time." The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself. "Why, Nancy!" said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; "you, you're more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting beautifully." "Am I!" said the girl. "Take care I don't overdo it. You will be the worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of me." There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy's rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue. Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments. "What do you mean by this?" said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles: "what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what you are?" "Oh, yes, I know all about it," replied the girl, laughing hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of indifference. "Well, then, keep quiet," rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was accustomed to use when addressing his dog, "or I'll quiet you for a good long time to come." The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood came. "You're a nice one," added Sikes, as | been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; "beautiful writing, isn't is, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the first. "They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!" With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands together, in perfect desperation. "The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they _will_ think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his hands, "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!" "Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough." Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare old house echo to the roof. "Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."<|quote|>"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the wall."</|quote|>"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, struggling violently with the man, "the child shan't be torn down by the dog, unless you kill me first." "Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that, if you don't keep off." The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. "What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round. "The girl's gone mad, I think," replied Sikes, savagely. "No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it." "Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look. "No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! What do you think of that?" Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention of the company, he turned to Oliver. "So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?" Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed quickly. "Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the Jew, catching the boy | Oliver Twist |
was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and | No speaker | and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe | for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke | put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, | too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty." "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So | it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty." "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet." "There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!" "They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had | it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty." "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet." "There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!" "They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable." The rain continued fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. "You will not be able to go, my dear." "I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of France! the night that poor St. Aubin died! such beautiful weather!" At half past twelve, when Catherine s anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite | You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last because they can afford to stay no longer." "Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there." "You are not fond of the country." "Yes, I am. I have always lived there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like another." "But then you spend your time so much more rationally in the country." "Do I?" "Do you not?" "I do not believe there is much difference." "Here you are in pursuit only of amusement all day long." "And so I am at home only I do not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs. Allen." Mr. Tilney was very much amused. "Only go and call on Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty! However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here." "Oh! Yes. I shall never be in want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again I _do_ like it so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I suppose I should be too happy! James s coming (my eldest brother) is quite delightful and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?" "Not those who bring such fresh feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty." "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet." "There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!" "They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable." The rain continued fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. "You will not be able to go, my dear." "I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of France! the night that poor St. Aubin died! such beautiful weather!" At half past twelve, when Catherine s anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had "always thought it would clear up." But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps but I shall not go I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment there is no time to be lost we are going to Bristol. How d ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner | every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of Bath and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance becoming now too importunate for a divided attention. Soon after their reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine perceived herself to be earnestly regarded by a gentleman who stood among the lookers-on, immediately behind her partner. He was a very handsome man, of a commanding aspect, past the bloom, but not past the vigour of life; and with his eye still directed towards her, she saw him presently address Mr. Tilney in a familiar whisper. Confused by his notice, and blushing from the fear of its being excited by something wrong in her appearance, she turned away her head. But while she did so, the gentleman retreated, and her partner, coming nearer, said, "I see that you guess what I have just been asked. That gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It is General Tilney, my father." Catherine s answer was only "Oh!" but it was an "Oh!" expressing everything needful: attention to his words, and perfect reliance on their truth. With real interest and strong admiration did her eye now follow the general, as he moved through the crowd, and "How handsome a family they are!" was her secret remark. In chatting with Miss Tilney before the evening concluded, a new source of felicity arose to her. She had never taken a country walk since her arrival in Bath. Miss Tilney, to whom all the commonly frequented environs were familiar, spoke of them in terms which made her all eagerness to know them too; and on her openly fearing that she might find nobody to go with her, it was proposed by the brother and sister that they should join in a walk, some morning or other. "I shall like it," she cried, "beyond anything in the world; and do not let us put it off let us go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, with only a proviso of Miss Tilney s, that it did not rain, which Catherine was sure it would not. At twelve o clock, they were to call for her in Pulteney Street; and "Remember twelve o clock,"<|quote|>was her parting speech to her new friend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend, Isabella, of whose fidelity and worth she had enjoyed a fortnight s experience, she scarcely saw anything during the evening. Yet, though longing to make her acquainted with her happiness, she cheerfully submitted to the wish of Mr. Allen, which took them rather early away, and her spirits danced within her, as she danced in her chair all the way home. CHAPTER 11 The morrow brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun making only a few efforts to appear, and Catherine augured from it everything most favourable to her wishes. A bright morning so early in the year, she allowed, would generally turn to rain, but a cloudy one foretold improvement as the day advanced. She applied to Mr. Allen for confirmation of her hopes, but Mr. Allen, not having his own skies and barometer about him, declined giving any absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen s opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt in the world of its being a very fine day, if the clouds would only go off, and the sun keep out." At about eleven o clock, however, a few specks of small rain upon the windows caught Catherine s watchful eye, and</|quote|>"Oh! dear, I do believe it will be wet," broke from her in a most desponding tone. "I thought how it would be," said Mrs. Allen. "No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but perhaps it may come to nothing, or it may hold up before twelve." "Perhaps it may, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty." "Oh! That will not signify; I never mind dirt." "No," replied her friend very placidly, "I know you never mind dirt." After a short pause, "It comes on faster and faster!" said Catherine, as she stood watching at a window. "So it does indeed. If it keeps raining, the streets will be very wet." "There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!" "They are disagreeable things to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable." The rain continued fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The | Northanger Abbey |
"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur." | Mrs. Corney | had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. | matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a | medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. | ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. | take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the wine?" "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't, oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. "I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble looking round. "Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Corney?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to | 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 covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. "Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, "what is this, ma'am? Has anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me: I'm on on" Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word "tenterhooks," so he said "broken bottles." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" cried the lady, "I have been so dreadfully put out!" "Put out, ma'am!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble; "who has dared to ? I know!" said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, "this is them wicious paupers!" "It's dreadful to think of!" said the lady, shuddering. "Then _don't_ think of it, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," whimpered the lady. "Then take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the wine?" "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't, oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. "I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble looking round. "Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Corney?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it | 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 covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath. "Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, "what is this, ma'am? Has anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me: I'm on on" Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word "tenterhooks," so he said "broken bottles." "Oh, Mr. Bumble!" cried the lady, "I have been so dreadfully put out!" "Put out, ma'am!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble; "who has dared to ? I know!" said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, "this is them wicious paupers!" "It's dreadful to think of!" said the lady, shuddering. "Then _don't_ think of it, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," whimpered the lady. "Then take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the wine?" "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't, oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. "I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble looking round. "Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Corney?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully. "He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!" Mrs. Corney sobbed. "The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?" "Ye ye yes!" sighed out the matron. "One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was "a irresistible duck." Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's decease. "Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?" "It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively. "It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your own B.?" "Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, dear." "After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from any of them male paupers as" "No, no, love!" interposed the lady, hastily. "If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance" "They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady. "They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!" Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a dove. The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which served to occupy his | think of it, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," whimpered the lady. "Then take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the wine?" "Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't, oh! The top shelf in the right-hand corner oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips. "I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of it. Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose. "Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little a little something else in it." Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty. "It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney. "Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.<|quote|>"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."</|quote|>"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. "Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?" "We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general principle. "So we are," said the beadle. Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined. "We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney sighed. "Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble. "I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again. "This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble looking round. "Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing." "It would be too much for one," murmured the lady. "But not for two, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. Corney?" Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble. "The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand. "And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure. "Coals, candles, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!" The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose. "Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. "You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?" "Yes," | Oliver Twist |
"What are you going to do for money?" | Bill Gorton | see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"Oh, some will come through. | nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"Oh, some will come through. I've two weeks allowance should | 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."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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 | dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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 | him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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 | myself in the glass, and went down-stairs to the dining-room. "Here he is!" said Bill. "Good old Jake! I knew you wouldn't pass out." "Hello, you old drunk," Mike said. "I got hungry and woke up." "Eat some soup," Bill said. The three of us sat at the table, and it seemed as though about six people were missing. BOOK III CHAPTER 19 In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I woke about nine o'clock, had a bath, dressed, and went down-stairs. The square was empty and there were no people on the streets. A few children were picking up rocket-sticks in the square. The caf s were just opening and the waiters were carrying out the comfortable white wicker chairs and arranging them around the marble-topped tables in the shade of the arcade. They were sweeping the streets and sprinkling them with a hose. I sat in one of the wicker chairs and leaned back comfortably. The waiter was in no hurry to come. The white-paper announcements of the unloading of the bulls and the big schedules of special trains were still up on the pillars of the arcade. A waiter wearing a blue apron came out with a bucket of water and a cloth, and commenced to tear down the notices, pulling the paper off in strips and washing and rubbing away the paper that stuck to the stone. The fiesta was over. I drank a coffee and after a while Bill came over. I watched him come walking across the square. He sat down at the table and ordered a coffee. "Well," he said, "it's all over." "Yes," I said. "When do you go?" "I don't know. We better get a car, I think. Aren't you going back to Paris?" "No. I can stay away another week. I think I'll go to San Sebastian." "I want to get back." "What's Mike going to do?" "He's going to Saint Jean de Luz." "Let's get a car and all go as far as Bayonne. You can get the train up from there to-night." "Good. Let's go after lunch." "All right. I'll get the car." We had lunch and paid the bill. Montoya did not come near us. One of the maids brought the bill. The car was outside. The chauffeur piled and strapped the bags on top of the car and put them in beside him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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. "Drive me to the Hotel Panier Fleuri." At the hotel I paid the driver and gave him a tip. The car was powdered with dust. I rubbed the rod-case through the dust. It seemed the last thing that connected me with Spain and the fiesta. The driver put the car in gear and went down the street. I watched it turn off to take the road to Spain. I went into the hotel and they gave me a room. It was the same room I had slept in when Bill and Cohn and I were in Bayonne. That seemed a very long time ago. I washed, changed my shirt, and went out in the town. At a newspaper kiosque I bought a copy of the New York _Herald_ and sat in a caf | him in the front seat and we got in. The car went out of the square, along through the side streets, out under the trees and down the hill and away from Pamplona. It did not seem like a very long ride. Mike had a bottle of Fundador. I only took a couple of drinks. We came over the mountains and out of Spain and down the white roads and through the overfoliaged, wet, green, Basque country, and finally into Bayonne. We left Bill's baggage at the station, and he bought a ticket to Paris. His train left at seven-ten. We came out of the station. The car was standing out in front. "What shall we do about the car?" Bill asked. "Oh, bother the car," Mike said. "Let's just keep the car with us." "All right," Bill said. "Where shall we go?" "Let's go to Biarritz and have a drink." "Old Mike the spender," Bill said. We drove in to Biarritz and left the car outside a very Ritz place. We went into the bar and sat on high stools and drank a whiskey and soda. "That drink's mine," Mike said. "Let's roll for it." So we rolled poker dice out of a deep leather dice-cup. Bill was out first roll. Mike lost to me and handed the bartender a hundred-franc note. The whiskeys were twelve francs apiece. We had another round and Mike lost again. Each time he gave the bartender a good tip. In a room off the bar there was a good jazz band playing. It was a pleasant bar. We had another round. I went out on the first roll with four kings. Bill and Mike rolled. Mike won the first roll with four jacks. Bill won the second. On the final roll Mike had three kings and let them stay. He handed the dice-cup to Bill. Bill rattled them and rolled, and there were three kings, an ace, and a queen. "It's yours, Mike," Bill said. "Old Mike, the gambler." "I'm so sorry," Mike said. "I can't get it." "What's the matter?" "I've no money," Mike said. "I'm stony. I've just twenty francs. Here, take twenty francs." Bill's face sort of changed. "I just had enough to pay Montoya. Damned lucky to have it, too." "I'll cash you a check," Bill said. "That's damned nice of you, but you see I can't write checks."<|quote|>"What are you going to do for money?"</|quote|>"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 | The Sun Also Rises |
"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna." | Alexis Ivanovitch | Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go | nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of | even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing | the trees are out. I like it very well. Are your people at home? Is the General, for instance, indoors?" "Yes; and probably all of them." "Do they observe the convenances, and keep up appearances? Such things always give one tone. I have heard that they are keeping a carriage, even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing about? What scullions these fellows are! Who is that with you?" she added to myself. "A Mr. Astley," I replied. "And who is Mr. Astley?" "A fellow-traveller, and my very good friend, as well as an acquaintance of the General s." "Oh, an Englishman? Then that is why he stared | I replied good humouredly as I recovered my presence of mind. "_I_ have no reason to wish you ill. I am merely rather astonished to see you. Why should I not be so, seeing how unexpected" "_Why_ should you be astonished? I just got into my chair, and came. Things are quiet enough in the train, for there is no one there to chatter. Have you been out for a walk?" "Yes. I have just been to the Casino." "Oh? Well, it is quite nice here," she went on as she looked about her. "The place seems comfortable, and all the trees are out. I like it very well. Are your people at home? Is the General, for instance, indoors?" "Yes; and probably all of them." "Do they observe the convenances, and keep up appearances? Such things always give one tone. I have heard that they are keeping a carriage, even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing about? What scullions these fellows are! Who is that with you?" she added to myself. "A Mr. Astley," I replied. "And who is Mr. Astley?" "A fellow-traveller, and my very good friend, as well as an acquaintance of the General s." "Oh, an Englishman? Then that is why he stared at me without even opening his lips. However, I like Englishmen. Now, take me upstairs, direct to their rooms. Where are they lodging?" Madame was lifted up in her chair by the lacqueys, and I preceded her up the grand staircase. Our progress was exceedingly effective, for everyone whom we met stopped to stare at the cort ge. It happened that the hotel had the reputation of being the best, the most expensive, and the most aristocratic in all the spa, and at every turn on the staircase or in the corridors we encountered fine ladies and important-looking Englishmen more | usual, after hearing once, she had remembered ever afterwards). "And this is the woman whom they had thought to see in her grave after making her will!" I thought to myself. "Yet she will outlive us, and every one else in the hotel. Good Lord! what is going to become of us now? What on earth is to happen to the General? She will turn the place upside down!" "My good sir," the old woman continued in a stentorian voice, "what are you standing _there_ for, with your eyes almost falling out of your head? Cannot you come and say how-do-you-do? Are you too proud to shake hands? Or do you not recognise me? Here, Potapitch!" she cried to an old servant who, dressed in a frock coat and white waistcoat, had a bald, red head (he was the chamberlain who always accompanied her on her journeys). "Just think! Alexis Ivanovitch does not recognise me! They have buried me for good and all! Yes, and after sending hosts of telegrams to know if I were dead or not! Yes, yes, I have heard the whole story. I am very much alive, though, as you may see." "Pardon me, Antonida Vassilievna," I replied good humouredly as I recovered my presence of mind. "_I_ have no reason to wish you ill. I am merely rather astonished to see you. Why should I not be so, seeing how unexpected" "_Why_ should you be astonished? I just got into my chair, and came. Things are quiet enough in the train, for there is no one there to chatter. Have you been out for a walk?" "Yes. I have just been to the Casino." "Oh? Well, it is quite nice here," she went on as she looked about her. "The place seems comfortable, and all the trees are out. I like it very well. Are your people at home? Is the General, for instance, indoors?" "Yes; and probably all of them." "Do they observe the convenances, and keep up appearances? Such things always give one tone. I have heard that they are keeping a carriage, even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing about? What scullions these fellows are! Who is that with you?" she added to myself. "A Mr. Astley," I replied. "And who is Mr. Astley?" "A fellow-traveller, and my very good friend, as well as an acquaintance of the General s." "Oh, an Englishman? Then that is why he stared at me without even opening his lips. However, I like Englishmen. Now, take me upstairs, direct to their rooms. Where are they lodging?" Madame was lifted up in her chair by the lacqueys, and I preceded her up the grand staircase. Our progress was exceedingly effective, for everyone whom we met stopped to stare at the cort ge. It happened that the hotel had the reputation of being the best, the most expensive, and the most aristocratic in all the spa, and at every turn on the staircase or in the corridors we encountered fine ladies and important-looking Englishmen more than one of whom hastened downstairs to inquire of the awestruck landlord who the newcomer was. To all such questions he returned the same answer namely, that the old lady was an influential foreigner, a Russian, a Countess, and a _grande dame_, and that she had taken the suite which, during the previous week, had been tenanted by the Grande Duchesse de N. Meanwhile the cause of the sensation the Grandmother was being borne aloft in her armchair. Every person whom she met she scanned with an inquisitive eye, after first of all interrogating me about him or her at the top of her voice. She was stout of figure, and, though she could not leave her chair, one felt, the moment that one first looked at her, that she was also tall of stature. Her back was as straight as a board, and never did she lean back in her seat. Also, her large grey head, with its keen, rugged features, remained always erect as she glanced about her in an imperious, challenging sort of way, with looks and gestures that clearly were unstudied. Though she had reached her seventy-sixth year, her face was still fresh, and her teeth | long ago, without even noticing that we had done so. "Yes, I _did_ hear a woman s voice calling, but whose I do not know. The someone was calling you in Russian. Ah! NOW I can see whence the cries come. They come from that lady there the one who is sitting on the settee, the one who has just been escorted to the verandah by a crowd of lacqueys. Behind her see that pile of luggage! She must have arrived by train." "But why should she be calling _me?_ Hear her calling again! See! She is beckoning to us!" "Yes, so she is," assented Mr. Astley. "Alexis Ivanovitch, Alexis Ivanovitch! Good heavens, what a stupid fellow!" came in a despairing wail from the verandah. We had almost reached the portico, and I was just setting foot upon the space before it, when my hands fell to my sides in limp astonishment, and my feet glued themselves to the pavement! IX For on the topmost tier of the hotel verandah, after being carried up the steps in an armchair amid a bevy of footmen, maid-servants, and other menials of the hotel, headed by the landlord (that functionary had actually run out to meet a visitor who arrived with so much stir and din, attended by her own retinue, and accompanied by so great a pile of trunks and portmanteaux) on the topmost tier of the verandah, I say, there was sitting _the grandmother!_ Yes, it was _she_ rich, and imposing, and seventy-five years of age Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha, landowner and _grande dame_ of Moscow the "La Baboulenka" who had caused so many telegrams to be sent off and received who had been dying, yet not dying who had, in her own person, descended upon us even as snow might fall from the clouds! Though unable to walk, she had arrived borne aloft in an armchair (her mode of conveyance for the last five years), as brisk, aggressive, self-satisfied, bolt-upright, loudly imperious, and generally abusive as ever. In fact, she looked exactly as she had on the only two occasions when I had seen her since my appointment to the General s household. Naturally enough, I stood petrified with astonishment. She had sighted me a hundred paces off! Even while she was being carried along in her chair she had recognised me, and called me by name and surname (which, as usual, after hearing once, she had remembered ever afterwards). "And this is the woman whom they had thought to see in her grave after making her will!" I thought to myself. "Yet she will outlive us, and every one else in the hotel. Good Lord! what is going to become of us now? What on earth is to happen to the General? She will turn the place upside down!" "My good sir," the old woman continued in a stentorian voice, "what are you standing _there_ for, with your eyes almost falling out of your head? Cannot you come and say how-do-you-do? Are you too proud to shake hands? Or do you not recognise me? Here, Potapitch!" she cried to an old servant who, dressed in a frock coat and white waistcoat, had a bald, red head (he was the chamberlain who always accompanied her on her journeys). "Just think! Alexis Ivanovitch does not recognise me! They have buried me for good and all! Yes, and after sending hosts of telegrams to know if I were dead or not! Yes, yes, I have heard the whole story. I am very much alive, though, as you may see." "Pardon me, Antonida Vassilievna," I replied good humouredly as I recovered my presence of mind. "_I_ have no reason to wish you ill. I am merely rather astonished to see you. Why should I not be so, seeing how unexpected" "_Why_ should you be astonished? I just got into my chair, and came. Things are quiet enough in the train, for there is no one there to chatter. Have you been out for a walk?" "Yes. I have just been to the Casino." "Oh? Well, it is quite nice here," she went on as she looked about her. "The place seems comfortable, and all the trees are out. I like it very well. Are your people at home? Is the General, for instance, indoors?" "Yes; and probably all of them." "Do they observe the convenances, and keep up appearances? Such things always give one tone. I have heard that they are keeping a carriage, even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing about? What scullions these fellows are! Who is that with you?" she added to myself. "A Mr. Astley," I replied. "And who is Mr. Astley?" "A fellow-traveller, and my very good friend, as well as an acquaintance of the General s." "Oh, an Englishman? Then that is why he stared at me without even opening his lips. However, I like Englishmen. Now, take me upstairs, direct to their rooms. Where are they lodging?" Madame was lifted up in her chair by the lacqueys, and I preceded her up the grand staircase. Our progress was exceedingly effective, for everyone whom we met stopped to stare at the cort ge. It happened that the hotel had the reputation of being the best, the most expensive, and the most aristocratic in all the spa, and at every turn on the staircase or in the corridors we encountered fine ladies and important-looking Englishmen more than one of whom hastened downstairs to inquire of the awestruck landlord who the newcomer was. To all such questions he returned the same answer namely, that the old lady was an influential foreigner, a Russian, a Countess, and a _grande dame_, and that she had taken the suite which, during the previous week, had been tenanted by the Grande Duchesse de N. Meanwhile the cause of the sensation the Grandmother was being borne aloft in her armchair. Every person whom she met she scanned with an inquisitive eye, after first of all interrogating me about him or her at the top of her voice. She was stout of figure, and, though she could not leave her chair, one felt, the moment that one first looked at her, that she was also tall of stature. Her back was as straight as a board, and never did she lean back in her seat. Also, her large grey head, with its keen, rugged features, remained always erect as she glanced about her in an imperious, challenging sort of way, with looks and gestures that clearly were unstudied. Though she had reached her seventy-sixth year, her face was still fresh, and her teeth had not decayed. Lastly, she was dressed in a black silk gown and white mobcap. "She interests me tremendously," whispered Mr. Astley as, still smoking, he walked by my side. Meanwhile I was reflecting that probably the old lady knew all about the telegrams, and even about De Griers, though little or nothing about Mlle. Blanche. I said as much to Mr. Astley. But what a frail creature is man! No sooner was my first surprise abated than I found myself rejoicing in the shock which we were about to administer to the General. So much did the thought inspire me that I marched ahead in the gayest of fashions. Our party was lodging on the third floor. Without knocking at the door, or in any way announcing our presence, I threw open the portals, and the Grandmother was borne through them in triumph. As though of set purpose, the whole party chanced at that moment to be assembled in the General s study. The time was eleven o clock, and it seemed that an outing of some sort (at which a portion of the party were to drive in carriages, and others to ride on horseback, accompanied by one or two extraneous acquaintances) was being planned. The General was present, and also Polina, the children, the latter s nurses, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche (attired in a riding-habit), her mother, the young Prince, and a learned German whom I beheld for the first time. Into the midst of this assembly the lacqueys conveyed Madame in her chair, and set her down within three paces of the General! Good heavens! Never shall I forget the spectacle which ensued! Just before our entry, the General had been holding forth to the company, with De Griers in support of him. I may also mention that, for the last two or three days, Mlle. Blanche and De Griers had been making a great deal of the young Prince, under the very nose of the poor General. In short, the company, though decorous and conventional, was in a gay, familiar mood. But no sooner did the Grandmother appear than the General stopped dead in the middle of a word, and, with jaw dropping, stared hard at the old lady his eyes almost starting out of his head, and his expression as spellbound as though he had just seen a basilisk. In return, the Grandmother stared | the hotel. Good Lord! what is going to become of us now? What on earth is to happen to the General? She will turn the place upside down!" "My good sir," the old woman continued in a stentorian voice, "what are you standing _there_ for, with your eyes almost falling out of your head? Cannot you come and say how-do-you-do? Are you too proud to shake hands? Or do you not recognise me? Here, Potapitch!" she cried to an old servant who, dressed in a frock coat and white waistcoat, had a bald, red head (he was the chamberlain who always accompanied her on her journeys). "Just think! Alexis Ivanovitch does not recognise me! They have buried me for good and all! Yes, and after sending hosts of telegrams to know if I were dead or not! Yes, yes, I have heard the whole story. I am very much alive, though, as you may see." "Pardon me, Antonida Vassilievna," I replied good humouredly as I recovered my presence of mind. "_I_ have no reason to wish you ill. I am merely rather astonished to see you. Why should I not be so, seeing how unexpected" "_Why_ should you be astonished? I just got into my chair, and came. Things are quiet enough in the train, for there is no one there to chatter. Have you been out for a walk?" "Yes. I have just been to the Casino." "Oh? Well, it is quite nice here," she went on as she looked about her. "The place seems comfortable, and all the trees are out. I like it very well. Are your people at home? Is the General, for instance, indoors?" "Yes; and probably all of them." "Do they observe the convenances, and keep up appearances? Such things always give one tone. I have heard that they are keeping a carriage, even as Russian gentlefolks ought to do. When abroad, our Russian people always cut a dash. Is Prascovia here too?" "Yes. Polina Alexandrovna is here." "And the Frenchwoman? However, I will go and look for them myself. Tell me the nearest way to their rooms. Do _you_ like being here?"<|quote|>"Yes, I thank you, Antonida Vassilievna."</|quote|>"And you, Potapitch, you go and tell that fool of a landlord to reserve me a suitable suite of rooms. They must be handsomely decorated, and not too high up. Have my luggage taken up to them. But what are you tumbling over yourselves for? Why are you all tearing about? What scullions these fellows are! Who is that with you?" she added to myself. "A Mr. Astley," I replied. "And who is Mr. Astley?" "A fellow-traveller, and my very good friend, as well as an acquaintance of the General s." "Oh, an Englishman? Then that is why he stared at me without even opening his lips. However, I like Englishmen. Now, take me upstairs, direct to their rooms. Where are they lodging?" Madame was lifted up in her chair by the lacqueys, and I preceded her up the grand staircase. Our progress was exceedingly effective, for everyone whom we met stopped to stare at the cort ge. It happened that the hotel had the reputation of being the best, the most expensive, and the most aristocratic in all the spa, and at every turn on the staircase or in the corridors we encountered fine ladies and important-looking Englishmen more than one of whom hastened downstairs to inquire of the awestruck landlord who the newcomer was. To all such questions he returned the same answer namely, that the old lady was an influential foreigner, a Russian, a Countess, and a _grande dame_, and that she had taken the suite which, during the previous week, had been tenanted by the Grande Duchesse de N. Meanwhile the cause of the sensation the Grandmother was being borne aloft in her armchair. Every person whom she met she scanned with an inquisitive eye, after first of all interrogating me about him or her at the top of her voice. She was stout of figure, and, though she could not leave her chair, one felt, the moment that one first looked at her, that she was also tall of stature. Her back was as straight as a board, and never did she lean back in her seat. Also, her large grey head, with its keen, rugged features, remained always erect as she glanced about her in an imperious, challenging sort of way, with looks and gestures that clearly were unstudied. Though she had reached her seventy-sixth year, her face was still fresh, and her teeth had not decayed. Lastly, she was dressed in a black silk gown and white mobcap. "She interests me tremendously," whispered Mr. Astley as, still smoking, he walked by my side. Meanwhile I was reflecting that probably the old lady knew all about | The Gambler |
"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else." | Cassandra Otway | matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don | be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That | Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any | don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed | to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk | is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, | so direct. They were united as the adventurous are united, though one reaches the goal and the other perishes by the way. "You couldn t laugh at some one you cared for." This sentence, apparently addressed to no other human being, reached Denham s ears. The wind seemed to muffle it and fly away with it directly. Had Rodney spoken those words? "You love her." Was that his own voice, which seemed to sound in the air several yards in front of him? "I ve suffered tortures, Denham, tortures!" "Yes, yes, I know that." "She s laughed at me." "Never to me." The wind blew a space between the words blew them so far away that they seemed unspoken. "How I ve loved her!" This was certainly spoken by the man at Denham s side. The voice had all the marks of Rodney s character, and recalled, with; strange vividness, his personal appearance. Denham could see him against the blank buildings and towers of the horizon. He saw him dignified, exalted, and tragic, as he might have appeared thinking of Katharine alone in his rooms at night. "I am in love with Katharine myself. That is why I am here to-night." Ralph spoke distinctly and deliberately, as if Rodney s confession had made this statement necessary. Rodney exclaimed something inarticulate. "Ah, I ve always known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. "No, we re not engaged," Katharine repeated. "But no one knows it but ourselves." "But why I don t understand you re not engaged!" Cassandra said again. "Oh, that explains it! You re not in love with him! You don t want to marry him!" "We aren t in love with each other any longer," said Katharine, as if disposing of something for ever and ever. "How queer, how strange, how unlike other people you are, Katharine," Cassandra said, her whole body and voice seeming to fall and collapse together, and no trace of anger or excitement remaining, but only a dreamy quietude. "You re not in love with him?" "But I love him," said Katharine. Cassandra remained bowed, as if by the weight of the revelation, for some little while longer. Nor did Katharine speak. Her attitude was that of some one who wishes to be concealed as much as possible from observation. She sighed profoundly; she was absolutely silent, and apparently overcome by her thoughts. "D you know what time it is?" she said at length, and shook her pillow, as if making ready for sleep. Cassandra rose obediently, and once more took up her candle. Perhaps the white dressing-gown, and the loosened hair, and something unseeing in the expression of the eyes gave her a likeness to a woman walking in her sleep. Katharine, at least, thought so. "There s no reason why I should go home, then?" Cassandra said, pausing. "Unless you want me to go, Katharine? What _do_ you want me to do?" For the first time their eyes met. "You wanted us to fall in love," Cassandra exclaimed, as if she read the certainty there. But as she looked she saw a sight that surprised her. The tears rose slowly in Katharine s eyes and stood there, brimming but contained the tears of some profound emotion, happiness, grief, renunciation; an emotion so complex in its nature that to express it was impossible, and Cassandra, bending her head and receiving the tears upon her cheek, accepted them in silence as the consecration of her love. "Please, miss," said the maid, about eleven o clock on the following morning, "Mrs. Milvain is in the kitchen." A long wicker basket of flowers and branches had arrived from the country, and | known it," he cried, "I ve known it from the first. You ll marry her!" The cry had a note of despair in it. Again the wind intercepted their words. They said no more. At length they drew up beneath a lamp-post, simultaneously. "My God, Denham, what fools we both are!" Rodney exclaimed. They looked at each other, queerly, in the light of the lamp. Fools! They seemed to confess to each other the extreme depths of their folly. For the moment, under the lamp-post, they seemed to be aware of some common knowledge which did away with the possibility of rivalry, and made them feel more sympathy for each other than for any one else in the world. Giving simultaneously a little nod, as if in confirmation of this understanding, they parted without speaking again. CHAPTER XXIX Between twelve and one that Sunday night Katharine lay in bed, not asleep, but in that twilight region where a detached and humorous view of our own lot is possible; or if we must be serious, our seriousness is tempered by the swift oncome of slumber and oblivion. She saw the forms of Ralph, William, Cassandra, and herself, as if they were all equally unsubstantial, and, in putting off reality, had gained a kind of dignity which rested upon each impartially. Thus rid of any uncomfortable warmth of partisanship or load of obligation, she was dropping off to sleep when a light tap sounded upon her door. A moment later Cassandra stood beside her, holding a candle and speaking in the low tones proper to the time of night. "Are you awake, Katharine?" "Yes, I m awake. What is it?" She roused herself, sat up, and asked what in Heaven s name Cassandra was doing? "I couldn t sleep, and I thought I d come and speak to you only for a moment, though. I m going home to-morrow." "Home? Why, what has happened?" "Something happened to-day which makes it impossible for me to stay here." Cassandra spoke formally, almost solemnly; the announcement was clearly prepared and marked a crisis of the utmost gravity. She continued what seemed to be part of a set speech. "I have decided to tell you the whole truth, Katharine. William allowed himself to behave in a way which made me extremely uncomfortable to-day." Katharine seemed to waken completely, and at once to be in control of herself. "At the Zoo?" she asked. "No, on the way home. When we had tea." As if foreseeing that the interview might be long, and the night chilly, Katharine advised Cassandra to wrap herself in a quilt. Cassandra did so with unbroken solemnity. "There s a train at eleven," she said. "I shall tell Aunt Maggie that I have to go suddenly.... I shall make Violet s visit an excuse. But, after thinking it over, I don t see how I can go without telling you the truth." She was careful to abstain from looking in Katharine s direction. There was a slight pause. "But I don t see the least reason why you should go," said Katharine eventually. Her voice sounded so astonishingly equable that Cassandra glanced at her. It was impossible to suppose that she was either indignant or surprised; she seemed, on the contrary, sitting up in bed, with her arms clasped round her knees and a little frown on her brow, to be thinking closely upon a matter of indifference to her.<|quote|>"Because I can t allow any man to behave to me in that way," Cassandra replied, and she added, "particularly when I know that he is engaged to some one else."</|quote|>"But you like him, don t you?" Katharine inquired. "That s got nothing to do with it," Cassandra exclaimed indignantly. "I consider his conduct, under the circumstances, most disgraceful." This was the last of the sentences of her premeditated speech; and having spoken it she was left unprovided with any more to say in that particular style. When Katharine remarked: "I should say it had everything to do with it," Cassandra s self-possession deserted her. "I don t understand you in the least, Katharine. How can you behave as you behave? Ever since I came here I ve been amazed by you!" "You ve enjoyed yourself, haven t you?" Katharine asked. "Yes, I have," Cassandra admitted. "Anyhow, my behavior hasn t spoiled your visit." "No," Cassandra allowed once more. She was completely at a loss. In her forecast of the interview she had taken it for granted that Katharine, after an outburst of incredulity, would agree that Cassandra must return home as soon as possible. But Katharine, on the contrary, accepted her statement at once, seemed neither shocked nor surprised, and merely looked rather more thoughtful than usual. From being a mature woman charged with an important mission, Cassandra shrunk to the stature of an inexperienced child. "Do you think I ve been very foolish about it?" she asked. Katharine made no answer, but still sat deliberating silently, and a certain feeling of alarm took possession of Cassandra. Perhaps her words had struck far deeper than she had thought, into depths beyond her reach, as so much of Katharine was beyond her reach. She thought suddenly that she had been playing with very dangerous tools. Looking at her at length, Katharine asked slowly, as if she found the question very difficult to ask. "But do you care for William?" She marked the agitation and bewilderment of the girl s expression, and how she looked away from her. "Do you mean, am I in love with him?" Cassandra asked, breathing quickly, and nervously moving her hands. "Yes, in love with him," Katharine repeated. "How can I love the man you re engaged to marry?" Cassandra burst out. "He may be in love with you." "I don t think you ve any right to say such things, Katharine," Cassandra exclaimed. "Why do you say them? Don t you mind in the least how William behaves to other women? If I were engaged, I couldn t bear it!" "We re not engaged," said Katharine, after a pause. "Katharine!" Cassandra cried. | Night And Day |
"What do you mean?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"He asked me for my | can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"He asked me for my permission also." She exclaimed: "How | delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication. "Time they did." "I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more." "It's his third go, isn't it?" "Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind." "I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls manage things, but she can't have said 'No' properly before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable." "Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!" "I feel--never mind." He returned to his work. "Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.'" "Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter." "I said:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | 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:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | 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:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons. "Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.' Then I put in at the | 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:" 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can't get on without me." "Nor me." "You?" Freddy nodded.<|quote|>"What do you mean?"</|quote|>"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 | A Room With A View |
Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie. | No speaker | 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once | that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister | see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head | fellows," followed her out. * * * * * Matters were less easy for Joe's mother and sister than they were for him. A week or more after this, Kitty found him and told him that Minty's story had reached their employers and that they were out of work. "You see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head and said, "De las' hope, de las' hope." XII "ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE" Kitty proved herself Joe's sister by falling desperately in love with Hattie Sterling the first time they met. The actress was very gracious to her, and called her "child" in a pretty, patronising way, and patted | suddenly paused and, turning her eyes full upon Minty, said in a voice loud enough for all to hear,-- "Say, boys, you 've heard that story about Joe, have n't you?" They had. "Well, that 's the one that told it; she 's come here to try to throw him and me down. Is she going to do it?" "Well, I guess not!" was the rousing reply, and every face turned towards the now frightened Minty. She rose hastily and, getting her skirts together, fled from the room, followed more leisurely by the crestfallen Griggs. Hattie's laugh and "Thank you, fellows," followed her out. * * * * * Matters were less easy for Joe's mother and sister than they were for him. A week or more after this, Kitty found him and told him that Minty's story had reached their employers and that they were out of work. "You see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head and said, "De las' hope, de las' hope." XII "ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE" Kitty proved herself Joe's sister by falling desperately in love with Hattie Sterling the first time they met. The actress was very gracious to her, and called her "child" in a pretty, patronising way, and patted her on the cheek. "It 's a shame that Joe has n't brought you around before. We 've been good friends for quite some time." "He told me you an' him was right good friends." Already Joe took on a new importance in his sister's eyes. He must be quite a man, she thought, to be the friend of such a person as Miss Sterling. "So you think you want to go on the stage, do you?" "Yes, 'm, I thought it might be right nice for me if I could." "Joe, go out and get some beer for us, | down the long room to the bartender, "make it three.--Lean over here, I want to talk to you. See that woman over there by the wall? No, not that one,--the big light woman with Griggs. Well, she 's come here with a story trying to throw Joe down, and I want you to help me do her." "Oh, that 's the one that upset our young friend, is it?" said Sadness, turning his mournful eyes upon Minty. "That 's her. So you know about it, do you?" "Yes, and I 'll help do her. She must n't touch one of the fraternity, you know." He kept his eyes fixed upon the outsider until she squirmed. She could not at all understand this serious conversation directed at her. She wondered if she had gone too far and if they contemplated putting her out. It made her uneasy. Now, this same Miss Sterling had the faculty of attracting a good deal of attention when she wished to. She brought it into play to-night, and in ten minutes, aided by Sadness, she had a crowd of jolly people about her table. When, as she would have expressed it, "everything was going fat," she suddenly paused and, turning her eyes full upon Minty, said in a voice loud enough for all to hear,-- "Say, boys, you 've heard that story about Joe, have n't you?" They had. "Well, that 's the one that told it; she 's come here to try to throw him and me down. Is she going to do it?" "Well, I guess not!" was the rousing reply, and every face turned towards the now frightened Minty. She rose hastily and, getting her skirts together, fled from the room, followed more leisurely by the crestfallen Griggs. Hattie's laugh and "Thank you, fellows," followed her out. * * * * * Matters were less easy for Joe's mother and sister than they were for him. A week or more after this, Kitty found him and told him that Minty's story had reached their employers and that they were out of work. "You see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head and said, "De las' hope, de las' hope." XII "ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE" Kitty proved herself Joe's sister by falling desperately in love with Hattie Sterling the first time they met. The actress was very gracious to her, and called her "child" in a pretty, patronising way, and patted her on the cheek. "It 's a shame that Joe has n't brought you around before. We 've been good friends for quite some time." "He told me you an' him was right good friends." Already Joe took on a new importance in his sister's eyes. He must be quite a man, she thought, to be the friend of such a person as Miss Sterling. "So you think you want to go on the stage, do you?" "Yes, 'm, I thought it might be right nice for me if I could." "Joe, go out and get some beer for us, and then I 'll hear your sister sing." Miss Sterling talked as if she were a manager and had only to snap her fingers to be obeyed. When Joe came back with the beer, Kitty drank a glass. She did not like it, but she would not offend her hostess. After this she sang, and Miss Sterling applauded her generously, although the young girl's nervousness kept her from doing her best. The encouragement helped her, and she did better as she became more at home. "Why, child, you 've got a good voice. And, Joe, you 've been keeping her shut up all this time. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." The young man had little to say. He had brought Kitty almost under a protest, because he had no confidence in her ability and thought that his "girl" would disillusion her. It did not please him now to find his sister so fully under the limelight and himself "up stage." Kitty was quite in a flutter of delight; not so much with the idea of working as with the glamour of the work she might be allowed to do. "I tell you, now," Hattie Sterling pursued, throwing a | I sent her out o' there a-flying, and with a tongue-lashing that she won't forget for a month o' Sundays." "I reckon that was the reason she jumped on me so hard at the club." He chuckled. He had taken heart again. All that Sadness had said was true, after all, and people thought no less of him. His joy was unbounded. "So she jumped on you hard, did she? The cat!" "Oh, she did n't say a thing to me." "Well, Joe, it 's just like this. I ain't an angel, you know that, but I do try to be square, and whenever I find a friend of mine down on his luck, in his pocket-book or his feelings, why, I give him my flipper. Why, old chap, I believe I like you better for the stiff upper lip you 've been keeping under all this." "Why, Hattie," he broke out, unable any longer to control himself, "you 're--you 're----" "Oh, I 'm just plain Hat Sterling, who won't throw down her friends. Now come on and get something to eat. If that thing is at the club, we 'll go there and show her just how much her talk amounted to. She thinks she 's the whole game, but I can spot her and then show her that she ain't one, two, three." When they reached the Banner, they found Minty still there. She tried on the two the same tactics that she had employed so successfully upon Joe alone. She nudged her companion and tittered. But she had another person to deal with. Hattie Sterling stared at her coldly and indifferently, and passed on by her to a seat. Joe proceeded to order supper and other things in the nonchalant way that the woman had enjoined upon him. Minty began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, but it was her business not to be beaten. She laughed outright. Hattie did not seem to hear her. She was beckoning Sadness to her side. He came and sat down. "Now look here," she said, "you can't have any supper because you have n't reached the stage of magnificent hunger to make a meal palatable to you. You 've got so used to being nearly starved that a meal don't taste good to you under any other circumstances. You 're in on the drinks, though. Your thirst is always available.--Jack," she called down the long room to the bartender, "make it three.--Lean over here, I want to talk to you. See that woman over there by the wall? No, not that one,--the big light woman with Griggs. Well, she 's come here with a story trying to throw Joe down, and I want you to help me do her." "Oh, that 's the one that upset our young friend, is it?" said Sadness, turning his mournful eyes upon Minty. "That 's her. So you know about it, do you?" "Yes, and I 'll help do her. She must n't touch one of the fraternity, you know." He kept his eyes fixed upon the outsider until she squirmed. She could not at all understand this serious conversation directed at her. She wondered if she had gone too far and if they contemplated putting her out. It made her uneasy. Now, this same Miss Sterling had the faculty of attracting a good deal of attention when she wished to. She brought it into play to-night, and in ten minutes, aided by Sadness, she had a crowd of jolly people about her table. When, as she would have expressed it, "everything was going fat," she suddenly paused and, turning her eyes full upon Minty, said in a voice loud enough for all to hear,-- "Say, boys, you 've heard that story about Joe, have n't you?" They had. "Well, that 's the one that told it; she 's come here to try to throw him and me down. Is she going to do it?" "Well, I guess not!" was the rousing reply, and every face turned towards the now frightened Minty. She rose hastily and, getting her skirts together, fled from the room, followed more leisurely by the crestfallen Griggs. Hattie's laugh and "Thank you, fellows," followed her out. * * * * * Matters were less easy for Joe's mother and sister than they were for him. A week or more after this, Kitty found him and told him that Minty's story had reached their employers and that they were out of work. "You see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head and said, "De las' hope, de las' hope." XII "ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE" Kitty proved herself Joe's sister by falling desperately in love with Hattie Sterling the first time they met. The actress was very gracious to her, and called her "child" in a pretty, patronising way, and patted her on the cheek. "It 's a shame that Joe has n't brought you around before. We 've been good friends for quite some time." "He told me you an' him was right good friends." Already Joe took on a new importance in his sister's eyes. He must be quite a man, she thought, to be the friend of such a person as Miss Sterling. "So you think you want to go on the stage, do you?" "Yes, 'm, I thought it might be right nice for me if I could." "Joe, go out and get some beer for us, and then I 'll hear your sister sing." Miss Sterling talked as if she were a manager and had only to snap her fingers to be obeyed. When Joe came back with the beer, Kitty drank a glass. She did not like it, but she would not offend her hostess. After this she sang, and Miss Sterling applauded her generously, although the young girl's nervousness kept her from doing her best. The encouragement helped her, and she did better as she became more at home. "Why, child, you 've got a good voice. And, Joe, you 've been keeping her shut up all this time. You ought to be ashamed of yourself." The young man had little to say. He had brought Kitty almost under a protest, because he had no confidence in her ability and thought that his "girl" would disillusion her. It did not please him now to find his sister so fully under the limelight and himself "up stage." Kitty was quite in a flutter of delight; not so much with the idea of working as with the glamour of the work she might be allowed to do. "I tell you, now," Hattie Sterling pursued, throwing a brightly stockinged foot upon a chair, "your voice is too good for the chorus. Gi' me a cigarette, Joe. Have one, Kitty?--I 'm goin' to call you Kitty. It 's nice and homelike, and then we 've got to be great chums, you know." Kitty, unwilling to refuse anything from the sorceress, took her cigarette and lighted it, but a few puffs set her off coughing. "Tut, tut, Kitty, child, don't do it if you ain't used to it. You 'll learn soon enough." Joe wanted to kick his sister for having tried so delicate an art and failed, for he had not yet lost all of his awe of Hattie. "Now, what I was going to say," the lady resumed after several contemplative puffs, "is that you 'll have to begin in the chorus any way and work your way up. It would n't take long for you, with your looks and voice, to put one of the 'up and ups' out o' the business. Only hope it won't be me. I 've had people I 've helped try to do it often enough." She gave a laugh that had just a touch of bitterness in it, for she began to recognise that although she had been on the stage only a short time, she was no longer the all-conquering Hattie Sterling, in the first freshness of her youth. "Oh, I would n't want to push anybody out," Kit expostulated. "Oh, never mind, you 'll soon get bravely over that feeling, and even if you did n't it would n't matter much. The thing has to happen. Somebody 's got to go down. We don't last long in this life: it soon wears us out, and when we 're worn out and sung out, danced out and played out, the manager has no further use for us; so he reduces us to the ranks or kicks us out entirely." Joe here thought it time for him to put in a word. "Get out, Hat," he said contemptuously; "you 're good for a dozen years yet." She did n't deign to notice him, save so far as a sniff goes. "Don't you let what I say scare you, though, Kitty. You 've got a good chance, and maybe you 'll have more sense than I 've got, and at least save money--while you 're in it. But let 's get | show her that she ain't one, two, three." When they reached the Banner, they found Minty still there. She tried on the two the same tactics that she had employed so successfully upon Joe alone. She nudged her companion and tittered. But she had another person to deal with. Hattie Sterling stared at her coldly and indifferently, and passed on by her to a seat. Joe proceeded to order supper and other things in the nonchalant way that the woman had enjoined upon him. Minty began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, but it was her business not to be beaten. She laughed outright. Hattie did not seem to hear her. She was beckoning Sadness to her side. He came and sat down. "Now look here," she said, "you can't have any supper because you have n't reached the stage of magnificent hunger to make a meal palatable to you. You 've got so used to being nearly starved that a meal don't taste good to you under any other circumstances. You 're in on the drinks, though. Your thirst is always available.--Jack," she called down the long room to the bartender, "make it three.--Lean over here, I want to talk to you. See that woman over there by the wall? No, not that one,--the big light woman with Griggs. Well, she 's come here with a story trying to throw Joe down, and I want you to help me do her." "Oh, that 's the one that upset our young friend, is it?" said Sadness, turning his mournful eyes upon Minty. "That 's her. So you know about it, do you?" "Yes, and I 'll help do her. She must n't touch one of the fraternity, you know." He kept his eyes fixed upon the outsider until she squirmed. She could not at all understand this serious conversation directed at her. She wondered if she had gone too far and if they contemplated putting her out. It made her uneasy. Now, this same Miss Sterling had the faculty of attracting a good deal of attention when she wished to. She brought it into play to-night, and in ten minutes, aided by Sadness, she had a crowd of jolly people about her table. When, as she would have expressed it, "everything was going fat," she suddenly paused and, turning her eyes full upon Minty, said in a voice loud enough for all to hear,-- "Say, boys, you 've heard that story about Joe, have n't you?" They had. "Well, that 's the one that told it; she 's come here to try to throw him and me down. Is she going to do it?" "Well, I guess not!" was the rousing reply, and every face turned towards the now frightened Minty. She rose hastily and, getting her skirts together, fled from the room, followed more leisurely by the crestfallen Griggs. Hattie's laugh and "Thank you, fellows," followed her out. * * * * * Matters were less easy for Joe's mother and sister than they were for him. A week or more after this, Kitty found him and told him that Minty's story had reached their employers and that they were out of work. "You see, Joe," she said sadly, "we 've took a flat since we moved from Mis' Jones', and we had to furnish it. We 've got one lodger, a race-horse man, an' he 's mighty nice to ma an' me, but that ain't enough. Now we 've got to do something."<|quote|>Joe was so smitten with sorrow that he gave her a dollar and promised to speak about the matter to a friend of his. He did speak about it to Hattie.</|quote|>"You 've told me once or twice that your sister could sing. Bring her down here to me, and if she can do anything, I 'll get her a place on the stage," was Hattie's answer. When Kitty heard it she was radiant, but her mother only shook her head and said, "De las' hope, de las' hope." XII "ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE" Kitty proved herself Joe's sister by falling desperately in love with Hattie Sterling the first time they met. The actress was very gracious to her, and called her "child" in a pretty, patronising way, and patted her on the cheek. "It 's a shame that Joe has n't brought you around before. We 've been good friends for quite some time." "He told me you an' him was right good friends." Already Joe took on a new importance in his sister's eyes. He must be quite a man, she thought, to be the friend of such a person as Miss Sterling. "So you think you want to go on the stage, do you?" "Yes, 'm, I thought it might be right nice for me if I could." "Joe, go out and get some beer for us, and then I 'll hear your sister sing." Miss | The Sport Of The Gods |
"Are you really going away?" | Tony Last | alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. | until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" | don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what | about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, | left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves | nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * | bare patch, where they had shaved off her hair to clean her cut. In his summary the coroner remarked that it was clear from the evidence that nobody was in any way to blame for the misadventure; it only remained to express the deep sympathy of the court to Mr Last and Lady Brenda in their terrible loss. The people fell back to allow Tony and Brenda to leave the room. Colonel Inch and the hunt secretary were both present. Everything was done with delicacy and to show respect for their sorrow. Brenda said, "Wait a minute. I must just speak to that poor Ripon girl." She did it charmingly. When everyone had gone. Tony said, "I wish you had been here yesterday. There were so many people about and I didn't know what to say to them." "What did you do all day?" "There was the Shameless Blonde... we played animal snap some of the time." "Animal snap? Was that any good?" "Not much... It's odd to think that yesterday this time it hadn't happened." "Poor little boy," said Brenda. They had scarcely spoken to each other since Brenda's arrival. Tony had driven to the station to meet her; by the time they reached the house Mrs Rattery had gone to bed; that morning she left in her aeroplane without seeing either of them. They heard the machine pass over the house, Brenda in her bath, Tony downstairs in his study attending to the correspondence that had become necessary. A day of fitful sunshine and blustering wind; white and grey clouds were scarcely moving, high overhead, but the bare trees round the house swayed and shook and there were swift whirlpools of straw in the stable yard. Ben changed from the Sunday suit he had worn at the inquest and went about his duties. Thunderclap, too, had been kicked yesterday and was very slightly lame in the off fore. Brenda took off her hat and threw it down on a chair in the hall. "Nothing to say, is there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough." "I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod." * * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time." But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda. CHAPTER IV ENGLISH GOTHIC--II [I] "How's the old boy taking it?" "Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast," said Brenda. "I'm afraid he minds a lot." "Well, you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Polly to console her. "No, I suppose not." "I shall stick by you whatever happens," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "Oh, everything is going quite smoothly now," said Brenda. "There was a certain amount of _g?ne_ with relatives." * * * * * Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Bratt's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead, Tony and Jock went to Brown's, where | there?" "There's no need to talk." "No. I suppose there'll have to be a funeral." "Well, of course." "Yes: to-morrow?" She looked into the morning-room. "They've done quite a lot, haven't they?" All Brenda's movements were slower than usual and her voice was flat and expressionless. She sank down into one of the armchairs in the centre of the hall, which nobody ever used. She sat there doing nothing. Tony put his hand on her shoulder but she said "Don't" ", not impatiently or nervously but without any expression. Tony said, "I'll go and finish those letters." "Yes." "See you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then,<|quote|>"Are you really going away?"</|quote|>"Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda | A Handful Of Dust |
"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid." | Mary Datchet | perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of | which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at | think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the | mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a | and put back again into the position in which she had been at the beginning of their talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious power of drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions through her far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition of curious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of the convenient term "egoist." "She s an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up to give to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they were discussing Miss Hilbery. "Heavens, what a mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a joke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and they looked back into the room again. Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced his sentence. "I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that picture glazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, | Katharine remained silent Mary was slightly embarrassed. "Yes, they re very like sheep," she repeated, foolishly. "And yet they are very clever at least," Katharine added, "I suppose they have all read Webster." "Surely you don t think that a proof of cleverness? I ve read Webster, I ve read Ben Jonson, but I don t think myself clever not exactly, at least." "I think you must be very clever," Katharine observed. "Why? Because I run an office?" "I wasn t thinking of that. I was thinking how you live alone in this room, and have parties." Mary reflected for a second. "It means, chiefly, a power of being disagreeable to one s own family, I think. I have that, perhaps. I didn t want to live at home, and I told my father. He didn t like it.... But then I have a sister, and you haven t, have you?" "No, I haven t any sisters." "You are writing a life of your grandfather?" Mary pursued. Katharine seemed instantly to be confronted by some familiar thought from which she wished to escape. She replied, "Yes, I am helping my mother," in such a way that Mary felt herself baffled, and put back again into the position in which she had been at the beginning of their talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious power of drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions through her far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition of curious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of the convenient term "egoist." "She s an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up to give to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they were discussing Miss Hilbery. "Heavens, what a mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a joke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and they looked back into the room again. Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced his sentence. "I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that picture glazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean that Sunday afternoon. Was it the day Mr. Fortescue came? Yes, I think I remembered it." The three of them stood for a moment awkwardly silent, and then Mary left them in order to see that the great pitcher of coffee was properly handled, for beneath all her education she preserved the anxieties of one who owns china. Ralph could think of nothing further to say; but could one have stripped off his mask of flesh, one would have seen that his will-power was rigidly set upon a single object that Miss Hilbery should obey him. He wished her to stay there until, by some measures not yet apparent to him, he had conquered her interest. These states of mind transmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it was evident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of | "I wonder why men always talk about politics?" Mary speculated. "I suppose, if we had votes, we should, too." "I dare say we should. And you spend your life in getting us votes, don t you?" "I do," said Mary, stoutly. "From ten to six every day I m at it." Katharine looked at Ralph Denham, who was now pounding his way through the metaphysics of metaphor with Rodney, and was reminded of his talk that Sunday afternoon. She connected him vaguely with Mary. "I suppose you re one of the people who think we should all have professions," she said, rather distantly, as if feeling her way among the phantoms of an unknown world. "Oh dear no," said Mary at once. "Well, I think I do," Katharine continued, with half a sigh. "You will always be able to say that you ve done something, whereas, in a crowd like this, I feel rather melancholy." "In a crowd? Why in a crowd?" Mary asked, deepening the two lines between her eyes, and hoisting herself nearer to Katharine upon the window-sill. "Don t you see how many different things these people care about? And I want to beat them down I only mean," she corrected herself, "that I want to assert myself, and it s difficult, if one hasn t a profession." Mary smiled, thinking that to beat people down was a process that should present no difficulty to Miss Katharine Hilbery. They knew each other so slightly that the beginning of intimacy, which Katharine seemed to initiate by talking about herself, had something solemn in it, and they were silent, as if to decide whether to proceed or not. They tested the ground. "Ah, but I want to trample upon their prostrate bodies!" Katharine announced, a moment later, with a laugh, as if at the train of thought which had led her to this conclusion. "One doesn t necessarily trample upon people s bodies because one runs an office," Mary remarked. "No. Perhaps not," Katharine replied. The conversation lapsed, and Mary saw Katharine looking out into the room rather moodily with closed lips, the desire to talk about herself or to initiate a friendship having, apparently, left her. Mary was struck by her capacity for being thus easily silent, and occupied with her own thoughts. It was a habit that spoke of loneliness and a mind thinking for itself. When Katharine remained silent Mary was slightly embarrassed. "Yes, they re very like sheep," she repeated, foolishly. "And yet they are very clever at least," Katharine added, "I suppose they have all read Webster." "Surely you don t think that a proof of cleverness? I ve read Webster, I ve read Ben Jonson, but I don t think myself clever not exactly, at least." "I think you must be very clever," Katharine observed. "Why? Because I run an office?" "I wasn t thinking of that. I was thinking how you live alone in this room, and have parties." Mary reflected for a second. "It means, chiefly, a power of being disagreeable to one s own family, I think. I have that, perhaps. I didn t want to live at home, and I told my father. He didn t like it.... But then I have a sister, and you haven t, have you?" "No, I haven t any sisters." "You are writing a life of your grandfather?" Mary pursued. Katharine seemed instantly to be confronted by some familiar thought from which she wished to escape. She replied, "Yes, I am helping my mother," in such a way that Mary felt herself baffled, and put back again into the position in which she had been at the beginning of their talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious power of drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions through her far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition of curious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of the convenient term "egoist." "She s an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up to give to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they were discussing Miss Hilbery. "Heavens, what a mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a joke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and they looked back into the room again. Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced his sentence. "I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that picture glazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean that Sunday afternoon. Was it the day Mr. Fortescue came? Yes, I think I remembered it." The three of them stood for a moment awkwardly silent, and then Mary left them in order to see that the great pitcher of coffee was properly handled, for beneath all her education she preserved the anxieties of one who owns china. Ralph could think of nothing further to say; but could one have stripped off his mask of flesh, one would have seen that his will-power was rigidly set upon a single object that Miss Hilbery should obey him. He wished her to stay there until, by some measures not yet apparent to him, he had conquered her interest. These states of mind transmit themselves very often without the use of language, and it was evident to Katharine that this young man had fixed his mind upon her. She instantly recalled her first impressions of him, and saw herself again proffering family relics. She reverted to the state of mind in which he had left her that Sunday afternoon. She supposed that he judged her very severely. She argued naturally that, if this were the case, the burden of the conversation should rest with him. But she submitted so far as to stand perfectly still, her eyes upon the opposite wall, and her lips very nearly closed, though the desire to laugh stirred them slightly. "You know the names of the stars, I suppose?" Denham remarked, and from the tone of his voice one might have thought that he grudged Katharine the knowledge he attributed to her. She kept her voice steady with some difficulty. "I know how to find the Pole star if I m lost." "I don t suppose that often happens to you." "No. Nothing interesting ever happens to me," she said. "I think you make a system of saying disagreeable things, Miss Hilbery," he broke out, again going further than he meant to. "I suppose it s one of the characteristics of your class. They never talk seriously to their inferiors." Whether it was that they were meeting on neutral ground to-night, or whether the carelessness of an old grey coat that Denham wore gave an ease to his bearing that he lacked in conventional dress, Katharine certainly felt no impulse to consider him outside the particular set in which she lived. "In what sense are you my inferior?" she asked, looking at him gravely, as though honestly searching for his meaning. The look gave him great pleasure. For the first time he felt himself on perfectly equal terms with a woman whom he wished to think well of him, although he could not have explained why her opinion of him mattered one way or another. Perhaps, after all, he only wanted to have something of her to take home to think about. But he was not destined to profit by his advantage. "I don t think I understand what you mean," Katharine repeated, and then she was obliged to stop and answer some one who wished to know whether she would buy a ticket for an opera from them, at a reduction. Indeed, the temper of the meeting was now unfavorable to separate conversation; it had become rather debauched and hilarious, and people who scarcely knew each other were making use of Christian names with apparent cordiality, and had reached that kind of gay tolerance and general friendliness which human beings in England only attain after sitting together for three hours or so, and the first cold blast in the air of the street | other so slightly that the beginning of intimacy, which Katharine seemed to initiate by talking about herself, had something solemn in it, and they were silent, as if to decide whether to proceed or not. They tested the ground. "Ah, but I want to trample upon their prostrate bodies!" Katharine announced, a moment later, with a laugh, as if at the train of thought which had led her to this conclusion. "One doesn t necessarily trample upon people s bodies because one runs an office," Mary remarked. "No. Perhaps not," Katharine replied. The conversation lapsed, and Mary saw Katharine looking out into the room rather moodily with closed lips, the desire to talk about herself or to initiate a friendship having, apparently, left her. Mary was struck by her capacity for being thus easily silent, and occupied with her own thoughts. It was a habit that spoke of loneliness and a mind thinking for itself. When Katharine remained silent Mary was slightly embarrassed. "Yes, they re very like sheep," she repeated, foolishly. "And yet they are very clever at least," Katharine added, "I suppose they have all read Webster." "Surely you don t think that a proof of cleverness? I ve read Webster, I ve read Ben Jonson, but I don t think myself clever not exactly, at least." "I think you must be very clever," Katharine observed. "Why? Because I run an office?" "I wasn t thinking of that. I was thinking how you live alone in this room, and have parties." Mary reflected for a second. "It means, chiefly, a power of being disagreeable to one s own family, I think. I have that, perhaps. I didn t want to live at home, and I told my father. He didn t like it.... But then I have a sister, and you haven t, have you?" "No, I haven t any sisters." "You are writing a life of your grandfather?" Mary pursued. Katharine seemed instantly to be confronted by some familiar thought from which she wished to escape. She replied, "Yes, I am helping my mother," in such a way that Mary felt herself baffled, and put back again into the position in which she had been at the beginning of their talk. It seemed to her that Katharine possessed a curious power of drawing near and receding, which sent alternate emotions through her far more quickly than was usual, and kept her in a condition of curious alertness. Desiring to classify her, Mary bethought her of the convenient term "egoist." "She s an egoist," she said to herself, and stored that word up to give to Ralph one day when, as it would certainly fall out, they were discussing Miss Hilbery. "Heavens, what a mess there ll be to-morrow morning!" Katharine exclaimed. "I hope you don t sleep in this room, Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed. "What are you laughing at?" Katharine demanded. "I won t tell you." "Let me guess. You were laughing because you thought I d changed the conversation?" "No." "Because you think" She paused. "If you want to know, I was laughing at the way you said Miss Datchet." "Mary, then. Mary, Mary, Mary." So saying, Katharine drew back the curtain in order, perhaps, to conceal the momentary flush of pleasure which is caused by coming perceptibly nearer to another person.<|quote|>"Mary Datchet," said Mary. "It s not such an imposing name as Katharine Hilbery, I m afraid."</|quote|>They both looked out of the window, first up at the hard silver moon, stationary among a hurry of little grey-blue clouds, and then down upon the roofs of London, with all their upright chimneys, and then below them at the empty moonlit pavement of the street, upon which the joint of each paving-stone was clearly marked out. Mary then saw Katharine raise her eyes again to the moon, with a contemplative look in them, as though she were setting that moon against the moon of other nights, held in memory. Some one in the room behind them made a joke about star-gazing, which destroyed their pleasure in it, and they looked back into the room again. Ralph had been watching for this moment, and he instantly produced his sentence. "I wonder, Miss Hilbery, whether you remembered to get that picture glazed?" His voice showed that the question was one that had been prepared. "Oh, you idiot!" Mary exclaimed, very nearly aloud, with a sense that Ralph had said something very stupid. So, after three lessons in Latin grammar, one might correct a fellow student, whose knowledge did not embrace the ablative of "mensa." "Picture what picture?" Katharine asked. "Oh, at home, you mean that | Night And Day |
"I cannot believe it." | Catherine Morland | good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be | It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There | Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There | he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared | did not understand him and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?" "No not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?" "My godfather! No." "But you are always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with anything like it in Oxford and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering | or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe s saying very abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew is not he?" Catherine did not understand him and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?" "No not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?" "My godfather! No." "But you are always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with anything like it in Oxford and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother s comparative sobriety. Thorpe s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. | and Catherine, whose desire of seeing Miss Tilney again could at that moment bear a short delay in favour of a drive, and who thought there could be no impropriety in her going with Mr. Thorpe, as Isabella was going at the same time with James, was therefore obliged to speak plainer. "Well, ma am, what do you say to it? Can you spare me for an hour or two? Shall I go?" "Do just as you please, my dear," replied Mrs. Allen, with the most placid indifference. Catherine took the advice, and ran off to get ready. In a very few minutes she reappeared, having scarcely allowed the two others time enough to get through a few short sentences in her praise, after Thorpe had procured Mrs. Allen s admiration of his gig; and then receiving her friend s parting good wishes, they both hurried downstairs. "My dearest creature," cried Isabella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into the carriage, "you have been at least three hours getting ready. I was afraid you were ill. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a thousand things to say to you; but make haste and get in, for I long to be off." Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear her friend exclaim aloud to James, "What a sweet girl she is! I quite dote on her." "You will not be frightened, Miss Morland," said Thorpe, as he handed her in, "if my horse should dance about a little at first setting off. He will, most likely, give a plunge or two, and perhaps take the rest for a minute; but he will soon know his master. He is full of spirits, playful as can be, but there is no vice in him." Catherine did not think the portrait a very inviting one, but it was too late to retreat, and she was too young to own herself frightened; so, resigning herself to her fate, and trusting to the animal s boasted knowledge of its owner, she sat peaceably down, and saw Thorpe sit down by her. Everything being then arranged, the servant who stood at the horse s head was bid in an important voice "to let him go," and off they went in the quietest manner imaginable, without a plunge or a caper, or anything like one. Catherine, delighted at so happy an escape, spoke her pleasure aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made the matter perfectly simple by assuring her that it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe s saying very abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew is not he?" Catherine did not understand him and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?" "No not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?" "My godfather! No." "But you are always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with anything like it in Oxford and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother s comparative sobriety. Thorpe s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. "You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that James s gig will break down?" "Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds." "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it is." "Unsafe! Oh, lord! What is there in that? They will only get a roll if it does break down; and there is plenty of dirt; it will be excellent falling. Oh, curse it! The carriage is safe enough, if a man knows how to drive it; a thing of that sort in good hands will last above twenty years after it is fairly worn out. Lord bless you! I would undertake for five pounds to drive it to York and back again, without losing a nail." Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. Her own family were plain, matter-of-fact people who seldom aimed at wit of any kind; her father, at the utmost, being contented with a pun, and her mother with a proverb; they were not in the habit therefore of telling lies to increase their importance, or of asserting at one moment what they would contradict the next. She reflected on the affair for some time in much perplexity, and was more than once on the point of requesting from Mr. Thorpe a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she checked herself, | it was entirely owing to the peculiarly judicious manner in which he had then held the reins, and the singular discernment and dexterity with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, though she could not help wondering that with such perfect command of his horse, he should think it necessary to alarm her with a relation of its tricks, congratulated herself sincerely on being under the care of so excellent a coachman; and perceiving that the animal continued to go on in the same quiet manner, without showing the smallest propensity towards any unpleasant vivacity, and (considering its inevitable pace was ten miles an hour) by no means alarmingly fast, gave herself up to all the enjoyment of air and exercise of the most invigorating kind, in a fine mild day of February, with the consciousness of safety. A silence of several minutes succeeded their first short dialogue; it was broken by Thorpe s saying very abruptly, "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew is not he?" Catherine did not understand him and he repeated his question, adding in explanation, "Old Allen, the man you are with." "Oh! Mr. Allen, you mean. Yes, I believe, he is very rich." "And no children at all?" "No not any." "A famous thing for his next heirs. He is _your_ godfather, is not he?" "My godfather! No." "But you are always very much with them." "Yes, very much." "Aye, that is what I meant. He seems a good kind of old fellow enough, and has lived very well in his time, I dare say; he is not gouty for nothing. Does he drink his bottle a day now?" "His bottle a day! No. Why should you think of such a thing? He is a very temperate man, and you could not fancy him in liquor last night?" "Lord help you! You women are always thinking of men s being in liquor. Why, you do not suppose a man is overset by a bottle? I am sure of _this_ that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now. It would be a famous good thing for us all."<|quote|>"I cannot believe it."</|quote|>"Oh! Lord, it would be the saving of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there ought to be. Our foggy climate wants help." "And yet I have heard that there is a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford." "Oxford! There is no drinking at Oxford now, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet with a man who goes beyond his four pints at the utmost. Now, for instance, it was reckoned a remarkable thing, at the last party in my rooms, that upon an average we cleared about five pints a head. It was looked upon as something out of the common way. _Mine_ is famous good stuff, to be sure. You would not often meet with anything like it in Oxford and that may account for it. But this will just give you a notion of the general rate of drinking there." "Yes, it does give a notion," said Catherine warmly, "and that is, that you all drink a great deal more wine than I thought you did. However, I am sure James does not drink so much." This declaration brought on a loud and overpowering reply, of which no part was very distinct, except the frequent exclamations, amounting almost to oaths, which adorned it, and Catherine was left, when it ended, with rather a strengthened belief of there being a great deal of wine drunk in Oxford, and the same happy conviction of her brother s comparative sobriety. Thorpe s ideas then all reverted to the merits of his own equipage, and she was called on to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved along, and the ease which his paces, as well as the excellence of the springs, gave the motion of the carriage. She followed him in all his admiration as well as she could. To go before or beyond him was impossible. His knowledge and her ignorance of the subject, his rapidity of expression, and her diffidence of herself put that out of her power; she could strike out nothing new in commendation, but she readily echoed whatever he chose to assert, and it was finally settled between them without any difficulty that his equipage was altogether the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the neatest, his horse the best goer, and himself the best coachman. "You do not really think, Mr. Thorpe," said Catherine, venturing after some time to consider the matter as entirely decided, and to offer some little variation on the subject, "that James s gig will break down?" "Break down! Oh! Lord! Did you ever see such a little tittuppy thing in your life? There is not a sound piece of iron about it. The wheels have been fairly worn out these ten years at least and as for the body! Upon my soul, you might shake it to pieces yourself with a touch. It is the most devilish little rickety business I ever beheld! Thank God! we have got a better. I would not be bound to go two miles in it for fifty thousand pounds." "Good heavens!" cried Catherine, quite frightened. "Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back, Mr. Thorpe; stop and speak to my brother, and tell him how very unsafe it | Northanger Abbey |
"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." | Brett Ashley | think it makes _me_ feel?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"Come on, Robert," Bill said. | any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her | 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"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. | 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "He calls her Circe," Mike said. "He claims she turns | his head twisted, he lay the way he had fallen. Suddenly the bull left off and made for the other steer which had been standing at the far end, his head swinging, watching it all. The steer ran awkwardly and the bull caught him, hooked him lightly in the flank, and then turned away and looked up at the crowd on the walls, his crest of muscle rising. The steer came up to him and made as though to nose at him and the bull hooked perfunctorily. The next time he nosed at the steer and then the two of them trotted over to the other bull. When the next bull came out, all three, the two bulls and the steer, stood together, their heads side by side, their horns against the newcomer. In a few minutes the steer picked the new bull up, quieted him down, and made him one of the herd. When the last two bulls had been unloaded the herd were all together. The steer who had been gored had gotten to his feet and stood against the stone wall. None of the bulls came near him, and he did not attempt to join the herd. We climbed down from the wall with the crowd, and had a last look at the bulls through the loopholes in the wall of the corral. They were all quiet now, their heads down. We got a carriage outside and rode up to the caf . Mike and Bill came in half an hour later. They had stopped on the way for several drinks. We were sitting in the caf . "That's an extraordinary business," Brett said. "Will those last ones fight as 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "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 | 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?"<|quote|>"You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners."</|quote|>"Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "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 | The Sun Also Rises |
Lord! my dear, | No speaker | looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing | all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the | it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon | Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how | THE SECOND VOLUME CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper," For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. " "What! is Fanny ill?" ""That is exactly what I said, my | it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper," For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. " "What! is Fanny ill?" ""That is exactly what I said, my dear." Lord! "says I," is Mrs. Dashwood ill? "So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out." Lord! "thinks she | my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady Middleton s visitors. How can I ask them away from her?" Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations." Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said, "My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!" Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon s wife, and Marianne as _their_ visitor. Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days time. When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater. The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper," For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. " "What! is Fanny ill?" ""That is exactly what I said, my dear." Lord! "says I," is Mrs. Dashwood ill? "So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out." Lord! "thinks she to herself," they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it; "and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord s daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother s ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. _Then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion! and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had | her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them. END OF THE SECOND VOLUME CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying, "Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?" "No, ma am. What is it?" "Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr. Palmer s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and,"<|quote|>Lord! my dear,</|quote|>"says I," it is nothing in the world, but the red gum; "and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper," For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister s indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. " "What! is Fanny ill?" ""That is exactly what I said, my dear." Lord! "says I," is Mrs. Dashwood ill? "So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There s for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a | Sense And Sensibility |
"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod." | Brenda | you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * | that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found | not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that | alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind | us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some | line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time." But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda. CHAPTER IV ENGLISH GOTHIC--II [I] "How's the old boy taking it?" "Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast," said Brenda. "I'm afraid he minds a lot." "Well, you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Polly to console her. "No, I suppose not." "I shall stick by you whatever happens," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "Oh, everything is going quite smoothly now," said Brenda. "There was a certain amount of _g?ne_ with relatives." * * * * * Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Bratt's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead, Tony and Jock went to Brown's, where Beaver was not a member. Beaver was continually with Brenda nowadays, at one of half a dozen houses. Mrs Beaver did not like the turn things had taken; her workmen had been sent back from Hetton with their job unfinished. * * * | you at luncheon." "Yes." She rose, looked round listlessly for her hat, found it and went very slowly upstairs, the sunlight through the stained-glass windows glowing and sparkling all about her. In her room she sat on the window seat, looking out across the meadows and dun ploughland, the naked tossing trees, the church towers, the maelstroms of dust and leaf which eddied about the terrace below; she still held her hat and fidgeted with her fingers on the brooch which was clipped to one side of it. Nanny knocked at the door and came in, red eyed. "If you please, my lady, I've been going through John's things. There's this handkerchief doesn't belong to him." The heavy scent and crowned cipher at the corner proclaimed its origin. "I know whose it is. I'll send it back to her." "Can't think how it came to be there," said nanny. "Poor little boy. Poor little boy," said Brenda to herself, when nanny had left her, and gazed out across the troubled landscape. * * * * * "I was thinking about the pony, sir." "Oh yes, Ben?" "Will you want to be keeping her now?" "I hadn't thought... no, I suppose not." "Mr Westmacott over at Restall was asking about her. He thought she might do for his little girl." "Yes." "How much shall we be asking?" "Oh, I don't know... whatever you think is right." "She's a good little pony and she's always been treated well. I don't think she ought to go under twenty-five quid, sir." "All right, Ben, you see about it." "I'll ask thirty, shall I, sir, and come down a bit?" "Do just what you think best." "Very good, sir." * * * * * At luncheon Tony said, "Jock rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time." But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda. CHAPTER IV ENGLISH GOTHIC--II [I] "How's the old boy taking it?" "Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast," said Brenda. "I'm afraid he minds a lot." "Well, you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Polly to console her. "No, I suppose not." "I shall stick by you whatever happens," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "Oh, everything is going quite smoothly now," said Brenda. "There was a certain amount of _g?ne_ with relatives." * * * * * Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Bratt's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead, Tony and Jock went to Brown's, where Beaver was not a member. Beaver was continually with Brenda nowadays, at one of half a dozen houses. Mrs Beaver did not like the turn things had taken; her workmen had been sent back from Hetton with their job unfinished. * * * * * In the first week Tony had had several distasteful interviews. Allan had attempted to act as peacemaker. "You just wait a few weeks," he had said. "Brenda will come back. She'll soon get sick of Beaver." "But I don't want her back." "I know just how you feel, but it doesn't do to be medieval about it. If Brenda hadn't been upset at John's death this need never have come to a crisis. Why, last year Marjorie was going everywhere with that ass Robin Beaseley. She was mad about him at the time, but I pretended not to notice and it all blew over. If I were you I should refuse to recognize that anything has happened." Marjorie had said, "Of _course_ Brenda doesn't love Beaver. How could she?... And if she thinks she does at the moment, it's your duty to prevent her making a fool of herself. You must refuse to be divorced--anyway, until she has found someone more reasonable." Lady St Cloud had said, "Brenda has been very, very foolish. She always was an excitable girl, but I am sure there was never anything _wrong_, quite sure. _That_ wouldn't be like Brenda at all. I haven't met Mr Beaver and I do not wish to. I understand he is unsuitable in every way. Brenda would never want to marry anyone like that. I will tell you exactly how it happened, Tony. Brenda must have felt a tiny bit neglected--people often do at that stage of marriage. I have known countless cases--and it was naturally flattering to find a young man to beg and carry for her. That's all it was, nothing _wrong_. And then the terrible shock of little John's accident unsettled her and she didn't know what she was saying or writing. You'll both laugh over this little fracas in years to come." Tony had not set eyes on Brenda since the afternoon of the funeral. Once he spoke to her over the telephone. It was during the second week when he was feeling most lonely and bewildered by various counsels. Allan had been with him urging a reconciliation. "I've been talking to Brenda," he had said. "She's sick of Beaver already. The one thing she wants is to go back to Hetton and settle down with you again." While Allan was there, Tony resolutely refused to listen, but later the words, and the | rang up. He wanted to know if there was anything he could do." "How sweet of him. Why don't you have him down for the week-end?" "Would you like that?" "I shan't be here. I'm going to Veronica's." "You're going to Veronica's?" "Yes, don't you remember?" There were servants in the room so that they said nothing more until later, when they were alone in the library. Then, "Are you really going away?" "Yes. I can't stay here. You understand that, don't you?" "Yes, of course. I was thinking we might both go away, abroad somewhere." Brenda did not answer him but continued in her own line. "I couldn't stay here. It's all over, don't you see, our life down here." "Darling, what _do_ you mean?" "Don't ask me to explain... not just now." "But, Brenda, sweet, I don't understand. We're both young. Of course, we can never forget John. He'll always be our eldest son, but..." "Don't go on, Tony, please don't go on." So Tony stopped and after a time said, "So you're going to Veronica's to-morrow?" "Mmmm." "I think I will ask Jock to come." "Yes, I should." "And we can think about plans later when we've got more used to things." "Yes, later." Next morning. "A sweet letter from mother," said Brenda, handing it across. Lady St Cloud had written: ...I shall not come down to Hetton for the funeral, but I shall be thinking of you both all the time and of my dear grandson. I shall think of you as I saw you all three, together, at Christmas. Dear children, at a time like this only yourselves can be any help to each other. Love is the only thing that is stronger than sorrow... "I got a telegram from Jock," said Tony, "he _can_ come." "It's really rather embarrassing for us all, Brenda coming," said Veronica. "I do think she might have chucked. I shan't in the least know what to say to her." * * * * * Tony said to Jock, as they sat alone after dinner, "I've been trying to understand, and I think I do now. It's not how I feel myself, but Brenda and I are quite different in lots of ways. It's _because_ they were strangers and didn't know John, and were never in our life here, that she wants to be with them. That's it, don't you think? She wants to be absolutely alone and away from everything that reminds her of what has happened... all the same I feel awful about letting her go. I can't tell you what she was like here... quite mechanical. It's so much worse for her than it is for me, I see that. It's so terrible not being able to do anything to help." Jock did not answer. * * * * * Beaver was staying at Veronica's. Brenda said to him, "Until Wednesday, when I thought something had happened to you, I had no idea that I loved you." "Well you've said it often enough."<|quote|>"I'm going to make you understand," said Brenda. "You clod."</|quote|>* * * * * On Monday morning Tony found this letter on his breakfast tray. Darling Tony, I am not coming back to Hetton. Grimshawe can pack everything and bring it to the flat. Then I shan't want her any more. You must have realized for some time that things were going wrong. I am in love with John Beaver and I want to have a divorce and marry him. If John Andrew had not died things might not have happened like this. I can't tell. As it is, I simply can't begin over again. Please do not mind too much. I suppose we shan't be allowed to meet while the case is on but I hope afterwards we shall be great friends. Anyway, I shall always look on you as one whatever you think of me. Best love from Brenda. When Tony read this his first thought was that Brenda had lost her reason. "She's only seen Beaver twice to my knowledge," he said. But later he showed the letter to Jock, who said, "I'm sorry it should have happened like this." "But it's not true, is it?" "Yes, I'm afraid it is. Everyone has known for some time." But it was several days before Tony fully realized what it meant. He had got into a habit of loving and trusting Brenda. CHAPTER IV ENGLISH GOTHIC--II [I] "How's the old boy taking it?" "Not so well. It makes me feel rather a beast," said Brenda. "I'm afraid he minds a lot." "Well, you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Polly to console her. "No, I suppose not." "I shall stick by you whatever happens," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "Oh, everything is going quite smoothly now," said Brenda. "There was a certain amount of _g?ne_ with relatives." * * * * * Tony had been living with Jock for the last three weeks. Mrs Rattery had gone to California and he was grateful for company. They dined together most evenings. They had given up going to Bratt's; so had Beaver; they were afraid of meeting each other. Instead, Tony and Jock went to Brown's, where Beaver was not a member. Beaver was continually with Brenda nowadays, at one of half a dozen houses. Mrs Beaver did not like the turn things had taken; her workmen had been sent back from Hetton with their job unfinished. * * * * * In the first week Tony had had several distasteful interviews. Allan had attempted to act as peacemaker. "You just wait a few weeks," he had said. "Brenda will come back. | A Handful Of Dust |
"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here," | Mr. Turton | must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as | for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some | hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical | the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a | Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. | 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 cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones. "Not one of them's all right," contradicted | 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 cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and cranky had been dropped. They abused Fielding vigorously: he had been seen driving up with the two counsels, Amritrao and Mahmoud Ali; he encouraged the Boy Scout movement for seditious reasons; he received letters with foreign stamps on them, and was probably a Japanese spy. This morning's verdict would break the renegade, but he had done his country and the Empire incalculable disservice. While they denounced him, Miss Quested lay back with her hands on the arms of her chair and her eyes closed, reserving her strength. They noticed her after a time, and felt ashamed of making so much noise. "Can we do nothing for you?" Miss Derek said. "I don't think so, Nancy, and I seem able to do nothing for myself." "But you're strictly forbidden to talk like that; you're wonderful." "Yes indeed," came the reverent chorus. "My old Das is all right," said Ronny, starting a new subject in low tones. "Not one of them's all right," contradicted Major Callendar. "Das is, really." "You mean he's more frightened of acquitting than convicting, because if he acquits he'll lose his job," said Lesley with a clever little laugh. Ronny did mean that, but he cherished "illusions" about his own subordinates (following the finer traditions of his service here), and he liked to maintain that his old Das really did possess moral courage of the Public School brand. He pointed out that from one point of view it was good that an Indian was taking the case. Conviction was inevitable; so better let an Indian pronounce it, there would be less fuss in the long run. Interested in the argument, he let Adela become dim in his mind. "In fact, you disapprove of the appeal I forwarded to Lady Mellanby," said Mrs. Turton with considerable heat. "Pray don't apologize, Mr. Heaslop; I am accustomed to being in the wrong." "I didn't mean that . . ." "All right. I said don't apologize." "Those swine are always on the look-out for a grievance," said Lesley, to propitiate her. "Swine, I should think so," the Major echoed. "And what's more, I'll tell you what. What's happened is a damn good thing really, barring of course its application to present company. It'll make them squeal and it's time they did squeal. I've put the fear of God into them at the hospital anyhow. You should see the grandson of our so-called leading loyalist." He tittered brutally as he described poor Nureddin's present appearance. "His beauty's gone, five upper teeth, two lower and a nostril. . . . Old Panna Lal brought him the looking-glass yesterday and he blubbered. . . . I laughed; I laughed, I tell you, and so would you; that used to be one of these buck niggers, I thought, now he's all septic; damn him, blast his soul er I believe he was unspeakably immoral er " He subsided, nudged in the ribs, but added, "I wish I'd had the cutting up of my late assistant too; nothing's too bad for these people." "At last some sense is being talked," Mrs. Turton cried, much to her husband's discomfort. "That's what I say; I say there's not such a thing as cruelty after a thing like this." "Exactly, and remember it afterwards, you men. You're weak, weak, weak. Why, they ought to crawl from here to the caves on their | 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 cool little lick of the breeze was passing over the earth, dividing night from day; it would fail in ten minutes, but they might profit by it for their drive down into the city. "I am sure to break down," she repeated. "You won't," said the Collector, his voice full of tenderness. "Of course she won't, she's a real sport." "But Mrs. Turton . . ." "Yes, my dear child?" "If I do break down, it is of no consequence. It would matter in some trials, not in this. I put it to myself in the following way: I can really behave as I like, cry, be absurd, I am sure to get my verdict, unless Mr. Das is most frightfully unjust." "You're bound to win," he said calmly, and did not remind her that there was bound to be an appeal. The Nawab Bahadur had financed the defence, and would ruin himself sooner than let an "innocent Moslem perish," and other interests, less reputable, were in the background too. The case might go up from court to court, with consequences that no official could foresee. Under his very eyes, the temper of Chandrapore was altering. As his car turned out of the compound, there was a tap of silly anger on its paint a pebble thrown by a child. Some larger stones were dropped near the mosque. In the Maidan, a squad of native police on motor cycles waited to escort them through the bazaars. The Collector was irritated and muttered, "McBryde's an old woman" "; but Mrs. Turton said, "Really, after Mohurram a show of force will do no harm; it's ridiculous to pretend they don't hate us, do give up that farce." He replied in an odd, sad voice, "I don't hate them, I don't know why," and he didn't hate them; for if he did, he would have had to condemn his own career as a bad investment. He retained a contemptuous affection for the pawns he had moved about for so many years, they must be worth his pains.<|quote|>"After all, it's our women who make everything more difficult out here,"</|quote|>was his inmost thought, as he caught sight of some obscenities upon a long blank wall, and beneath his chivalry to Miss Quested resentment lurked, waiting its day perhaps there is a grain of resentment in all chivalry. Some students had gathered in front of the City Magistrate's Court hysterical boys whom he would have faced if alone, but he told the driver to work round to the rear of the building. The students jeered, and Rafi (hiding behind a comrade that he might not be identified) called out the English were cowards. They gained Ronny's private room, where a group of their own sort had collected. None were cowardly, all nervy, for queer reports kept coming in. The Sweepers had just struck, and half the commodes of Chandrapore remained desolate in consequence only half, and Sweepers from the District, who felt less strongly about the innocence of Dr. Aziz, would arrive in the afternoon, and break the strike, but why should the grotesque incident occur? And a number of Mohammedan ladies had sworn to take no food until the prisoner was acquitted; their death would make little difference, indeed, being invisible, they seemed dead already, nevertheless it was disquieting. A new spirit seemed abroad, a rearrangement, which no one in the stern little band of whites could explain. There was a tendency to see Fielding at the back of it: the idea that he was weak and | A Passage To India |
"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life." | Francis Oakley | attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell | business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last | what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a | is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key | it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and | know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up going to Paris and find some work to do." "Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?" "Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the part of Hamilton to complain of before." "Then do not condemn him now." "I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied." "I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton." "This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens. These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than those which satisfy his belly." Frank looked bored. "But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and leave everything to me." The young | must have left the key in the lock, as I found it to-night." "It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face to-night." The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned. When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade the last guest good-bye. Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away. "Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter to him." III THE THEFT Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the floor. "Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it." At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though he had been dreaming. "I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never before been guilty of such criminal carelessness." "Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in prompt action. Where was the money?" "In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up going to Paris and find some work to do." "Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?" "Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the part of Hamilton to complain of before." "Then do not condemn him now." "I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied." "I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton." "This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens. These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than those which satisfy his belly." Frank looked bored. "But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and leave everything to me." The young man reluctantly withdrew, and Maurice went to the telephone and rung up the police station. As Maurice had said, he was a plain, hard-headed business man, and it took very few words for him to put the Chief of Police in possession of the principal facts of the case. A detective was detailed to take charge of the case, and was started immediately, so that he might be upon the ground as soon after the commission of the crime as possible. When he came he insisted that if he was to do anything he must question the robbed man and search his room at once. Oakley protested, but the detective was adamant. Even now the presence in the room of a man uninitiated into the mysteries of criminal methods might be destroying the last vestige of a really important clue. The master of the house had no alternative save to yield. Together they went to the artist's room. A light shone out through the crack under the door. "I am sorry to disturb you again, Frank, but may we come in?" "Who is with you?" "The detective." "I did not know he was to come to-night." "The chief thought it better." "All right in a moment." There was a sound of moving around, and in a short time the young fellow, partly undressed, opened the door. To the detective's questions he answered in substance what he had told before. He also brought out the cabinet. It was a strong oak box, uncarven, but bound at the edges with brass. The key was still in the lock, where Frank had left it on discovering his loss. They raised the lid. The cabinet contained two compartments, one for letters and a smaller one for jewels and trinkets. "When you opened this cabinet, your money was gone?" "Yes." "Were any of your papers touched?" "No." "How about your jewels?" "I have but few and they were elsewhere." The detective examined the room carefully, its approaches, and the hall-ways without. He paused knowingly at a window that overlooked the flat top of a porch. "Do you ever leave this window open?" "It is almost always so." "Is this porch on the front of the house?" "No, on the side." "What else is out that way?" Frank and Maurice looked at each other. The younger man hesitated and put his hand to his head. Maurice | about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and find all my money gone. It 's awful." "Don't worry. How much was there in all?" "Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to say, I had accepted from you." "You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as mine, and you are always welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up going to Paris and find some work to do." "Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?" "Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of the thing." "Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had planned. I do not ask it, I command it." The younger man looked up quickly. "Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't you?" "You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go back, and I 'll try to redeem myself." "There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we can do in this matter." Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste."<|quote|>"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life."</|quote|>"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the part of Hamilton to complain of before." "Then do not condemn him now." "I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied." "I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton." "This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens. These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than those which satisfy his belly." Frank looked bored. "But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and leave everything to me." The young man reluctantly withdrew, and Maurice went to the telephone and rung up the police station. As Maurice had said, he was a plain, hard-headed business man, and it took very few words for him to put the Chief of Police in possession of the principal facts of the case. A detective was detailed to take charge of the case, and was started immediately, so that he might be upon | The Sport Of The Gods |
"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?" | Gabriel Syme | trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard | of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in | police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame | good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely | thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common | and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. | pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism. Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion. He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise. He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country. Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said "Good evening." Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight. "A good evening is it?" he said sharply. "You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed say a wealthy uncle he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else." "But this is absurd!" cried the policeman, clasping his hands | out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm." "If we are calm," replied the policeman, "it is the calm of organised resistance." "Eh?" said Syme, staring. "The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle," pursued the policeman. "The composure of an army is the anger of a nation." "Good God, the Board Schools!" said Syme. "Is this undenominational education?" "No," said the policeman sadly, "I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid." "Where did you have it?" asked Syme, wondering. "Oh, at Harrow," said the policeman The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them. "But, good Lord, man," he said, "you oughtn't to be a policeman!" The policeman sighed and shook his head. "I know," he said solemnly, "I know I am not worthy." "But why did you join the police?" asked Syme with rude curiosity. "For much the same reason that you abused the police," replied the other. "I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear."<|quote|>"If you mean that you make your opinion clear," said Syme, "I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?"</|quote|>"You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system," replied the other. "I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us." "Join you in what?" asked Syme. "I will tell you," said the policeman slowly. "This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt." Syme's eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity. "What do you do, then?" he said. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet." "Do you mean," asked Syme, "that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?" "You are not sufficiently democratic," answered the policeman, "but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the | The Man Who Was Thursday |
But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * * | No speaker | put in a Useful Pot."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"And didn't _I_ give him | of giving you Something to put in a Useful Pot."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"And didn't _I_ give him anything?" asked Christopher Robin sadly. | 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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 | the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag. "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised. Piglet nodded. "My present?" Piglet nodded again. "The balloon?" "Yes." "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it--when it _was_ a balloon?" "Red." "I just wondered.... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour.... How big was it?" "About as big as me." "I just wondered.... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well." Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was still opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying _that_, when he heard a shout from the other side of the river, and there was Pooh. "Many happy returns of the day," called out Pooh, forgetting that he had said it already. "Thank you, Pooh, I'm having them," said Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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 | a noise just falling down. And where's my balloon? And what's that small piece of damp rag doing?" It was the balloon! "Oh, dear!" said Piglet "Oh, dear, oh, dearie, dearie, dear! Well, it's too late now. I can't go back, and I haven't another balloon, and perhaps Eeyore doesn't _like_ balloons so _very_ much." So he trotted on, rather sadly now, and down he came to the side of the stream where Eeyore was, and called out to him. "Good morning, Eeyore," shouted Piglet. "Good morning, Little Piglet," said Eeyore. "If it _is_ a good morning," he said. "Which I doubt," said he. "Not that it matters," he said. "Many happy returns of the day," said Piglet, having now got closer. Eeyore stopped looking at himself in the stream, and turned to stare at Piglet. "Just say that again," he said. "Many hap----" "Wait a moment." Balancing on three legs, he began to bring his fourth leg very cautiously up to his ear. "I did this yesterday," he explained, as he fell down for the third time. "It's quite easy. It's so as I can hear better.... There, that's done it! Now then, what were you saying?" He pushed his ear forward with his hoof. "Many happy returns of the day," said Piglet again. "Meaning me?" "Of course, Eeyore." "My birthday?" "Yes." "Me having a real birthday?" "Yes, Eeyore, and I've brought you a present." Eeyore took down his right hoof from his right ear, turned round, and with great difficulty put up his left hoof. "I must have that in the other ear," he said. "Now then." "A present," said Piglet very loudly. "Meaning me again?" "Yes." "My birthday still?" "Of course, Eeyore." "Me going on having a real birthday?" "Yes, Eeyore, and I brought you a balloon." "_Balloon?_" said Eeyore. "You did say balloon? One of those big coloured things you blow up? Gaiety, song-and-dance, here we are and there we are?" "Yes, but I'm afraid--I'm very sorry, Eeyore--but when I was running along to bring it you, I fell down." "Dear, dear, how unlucky! You ran too fast, I expect. You didn't hurt yourself, Little Piglet?" "No, but I--I--oh, Eeyore, I burst the balloon!" There was a very long silence. "My balloon?" said Eeyore at last. Piglet nodded. "My birthday balloon?" "Yes, Eeyore," said Piglet sniffing a little. "Here it is. With--with many happy returns of the day." And he gave Eeyore the small piece of damp rag. "Is this it?" said Eeyore, a little surprised. Piglet nodded. "My present?" Piglet nodded again. "The balloon?" "Yes." "Thank you, Piglet," said Eeyore. "You don't mind my asking," he went on, "but what colour was this balloon when it--when it _was_ a balloon?" "Red." "I just wondered.... Red," he murmured to himself. "My favourite colour.... How big was it?" "About as big as me." "I just wondered.... About as big as Piglet," he said to himself sadly. "My favourite size. Well, well." Piglet felt very miserable, and didn't know what to say. He was still opening his mouth to begin something, and then deciding that it wasn't any good saying _that_, when he heard a shout from the other side of the river, and there was Pooh. "Many happy returns of the day," called out Pooh, forgetting that he had said it already. "Thank you, Pooh, I'm having them," said Eeyore gloomily. "I've brought you a little present," said Pooh excitedly. "I've had it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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." "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 | it," said Eeyore. Pooh had now splashed across the stream to Eeyore, and Piglet was sitting a little way off, his head in his paws, 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."<|quote|>But Eeyore wasn't listening. He was taking the balloon out, and putting it back again, as happy as could be.... * * * * *</|quote|>"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 | Winnie The Pooh |
"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," | Ralph Denham | he knew, to his text.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>he concluded. "I ve rather | he said, warming unreasonably, as he knew, to his text.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>he concluded. "I ve rather come to that way of | 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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, | 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," 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 | her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," 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 | 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.<|quote|>"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,"</|quote|>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." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," 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 | Night And Day |
"Looking back, that was wrong of me." | Margaret | idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know | that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It | I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this | cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. | let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. This was Helen s evening--won at what cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and you mustn t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would | alone. CHAPTER XL Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. Perhaps it was Helen s way of falling in love--a curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the loss of friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. This was Helen s evening--won at what cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and you mustn t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these things!" She laid her face against the tree. "The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?" Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention had actually wandered to the teeth--the teeth that had been thrust into the tree s bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth than madness," she said. "I was afraid that you would react against Paul until you went over the verge." "I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan t ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understand how you married him, and you will now be very happy." Margaret did not reply. "Yes," | lodgings he had only to move into another. His was the leisure without sympathy--an attitude as fatal as the strenuous; a little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave all the praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the submerged. Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between them was economic as well as spiritual. But several facts passed; Charles pressed for them with an impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? (Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: "I suppose you realise that you are your sister s protector?" "In what sense?" "If a man played about with my sister, I d send a bullet through him, but perhaps you don t mind." "I mind very much," protested Tibby. "Who d ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One always suspects some one." "No one. I don t think so." Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered the scene in his Oxford rooms. "You are hiding something," said Charles. As interviews go, he got the best of this one. "When you saw her last, did she mention any one s name? Yes or no!" he thundered, so that Tibby started. "In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts." "Who are the Basts?" "People--friends of hers at Evie s wedding." "I don t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My aunt told me about some rag-tag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the man? Or--look here--have you had any dealings with him?" Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister s confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where things will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. "I see--you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God help the poor pater--" And Tibby found himself alone. CHAPTER XL Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. Perhaps it was Helen s way of falling in love--a curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the loss of friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. This was Helen s evening--won at what cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and you mustn t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these things!" She laid her face against the tree. "The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?" Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention had actually wandered to the teeth--the teeth that had been thrust into the tree s bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth than madness," she said. "I was afraid that you would react against Paul until you went over the verge." "I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan t ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understand how you married him, and you will now be very happy." Margaret did not reply. "Yes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, "I do at last understand." "Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements." "Because in death--I agree." "Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only fragments of that woman s mind. She knows everything. She is everything. She is the house, and the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths as well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledge such as hers will perish with knowledge such as mine. She knew about realities. She knew when people were in love, though she was not in the room. I don t doubt that she knew when Henry deceived her." "Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox," called a voice. "Oh, good-night, Miss Avery." "Why should Miss Avery work for us?" Helen murmured. "Why, indeed?" Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge that divided it from the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track through the dew followed the path that he had turfed over, when he improved the garden and made it possible for games. "This is not quite our house yet," said Helen. "When Miss Avery called, I felt we are only a couple of tourists." "We shall be that everywhere, and for ever." "But affectionate tourists." "But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home." "I can t pretend very long," said Helen. "Sitting under this tree one forgets, but I know that to-morrow I shall see the moon rise out of Germany. Not all your goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you will come with me." Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had grown so fond of England that to leave it was a real grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt Henry would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and muddling into a ripe old age. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanish from his mind. "Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your Monica?" "You would not, but I am serious in asking you." "Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences." They were silent for a little. It was Helen s evening. The present flowed by them like | the Basts?" "People--friends of hers at Evie s wedding." "I don t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My aunt told me about some rag-tag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she speak of the man? Or--look here--have you had any dealings with him?" Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister s confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where things will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not only for the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. "I see--you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a family, what a family! God help the poor pater--" And Tibby found himself alone. CHAPTER XL Leonard--he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. Perhaps it was Helen s way of falling in love--a curious way to Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen s evening. Troubles enough lay ahead of her--the loss of friends and of social advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not even yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away from the gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not even to herself dare she blame Helen. She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. This was Helen s evening--won at what cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. "One isolates," said Helen slowly. "I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your letters came--" "I need never have written them," sighed Margaret. "They never shielded Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!" "I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts."<|quote|>"Looking back, that was wrong of me."</|quote|>"Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time--and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard--I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation--he knew of it, and you mustn t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these things!" She laid her face against the tree. "The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?" Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention had actually wandered to the teeth--the teeth that had been thrust into the tree s bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She had been trying to count them. "Leonard is a better growth than madness," she said. "I was afraid that you would react against Paul until you went over the verge." "I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan t ever like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understand how you married him, and you will now be very happy." Margaret did not reply. "Yes," repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, "I do at last understand." "Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements." "Because in | Howards End |
"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." | Lucy | that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is | he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how | eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. | to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in | bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in | over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have | eyes. George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated: "Oh, what have I done?" "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry." "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile. "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping." He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended. "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?" He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!" She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much." "No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--" "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone." He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "And don't move till I come back." In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?" "--the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary. He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him. "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What was that?" He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?" "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!" "Well?" "Where are the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!" "I don't." Anxiety moved her to question him. His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live." "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?" "I shall want to live, I say." Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one. For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong. At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone. "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather." "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her. She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!" Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice." Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper--but she | the photographs?" He was silent. "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away." "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died." Something warned Lucy that she must stop him. "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson--" He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest. "I want to ask you something before we go in." They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying: "I have behaved ridiculously." He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.<|quote|>"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."</|quote|>"Oh, all right." "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?" "I'm afraid I don't." "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?" "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right." "Thank you so much. And would you--" She could not carry her request any further. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of | A Room With A View |
was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation. | No speaker | house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, | way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be | of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them | of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they | glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from home and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their | apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland s having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from home and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter. The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored but they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way. The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to | "Then you are fretting about General Tilney, and that is very simple of you; for ten to one whether you ever see him again. You should never fret about trifles." After a short silence "I hope, my Catherine, you are not getting out of humour with home because it is not so grand as Northanger. That would be turning your visit into an evil indeed. Wherever you are you should always be contented, but especially at home, because there you must spend the most of your time. I did not quite like, at breakfast, to hear you talk so much about the French bread at Northanger." "I am sure I do not care about the bread. It is all the same to me what I eat." "There is a very clever essay in one of the books upstairs upon much such a subject, about young girls that have been spoilt for home by great acquaintance The Mirror, I think. I will look it out for you some day or other, because I am sure it will do you good." Catherine said no more, and, with an endeavour to do right, applied to her work; but, after a few minutes, sunk again, without knowing it herself, into languor and listlessness, moving herself in her chair, from the irritation of weariness, much oftener than she moved her needle. Mrs. Morland watched the progress of this relapse; and seeing, in her daughter s absent and dissatisfied look, the full proof of that repining spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her want of cheerfulness, hastily left the room to fetch the book in question, anxious to lose no time in attacking so dreadful a malady. It was some time before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland s having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from home and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter. The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored but they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way. The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the general s? The circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him "to be a fool if he liked it!" The marriage of Eleanor Tilney, her removal from all the evils of such a home as Northanger had been made by Henry s banishment, to the home of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event which I expect to give general satisfaction among all her acquaintance. My own joy on the occasion is very sincere. I know no one more entitled, by unpretending merit, or better prepared by habitual suffering, to receive and enjoy felicity. Her partiality for this gentleman was not of recent origin; and he had been long withheld only by inferiority of situation from addressing her. His unexpected accession to title and fortune had removed all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his daughter so well in all her hours of companionship, utility, and patient endurance as when he first hailed her "Your Ladyship!" Her husband was really deserving of her; independent of his peerage, his wealth, and his attachment, being to a precision the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; the most charming young man in the world is instantly before the imagination of us all. Concerning the one in question, therefore, I have only to add aware that the rules of composition forbid the introduction of a character not connected with my fable that this was the very gentleman whose negligent servant left behind him that collection of washing-bills, resulting from a long visit at Northanger, by which my heroine was involved in one of her most alarming adventures. The influence of the viscount and viscountess in their brother s behalf was assisted by that right understanding of Mr. Morland s circumstances which, as soon as the general would allow himself to be informed, they were qualified to give. It taught him that | before she could find what she looked for; and other family matters occurring to detain her, a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere she returned downstairs with the volume from which so much was hoped. Her avocations above having shut out all noise but what she created herself, she knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland s having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father s misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past. He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland s common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time, and gladly therefore did she lay aside the first volume of The Mirror for a future hour. Desirous of Mr. Morland s assistance, as well in giving encouragement, as in finding conversation for her guest, whose embarrassment on his father s account she earnestly pitied, Mrs. Morland had very early dispatched one of the children to summon him; but Mr. Morland was from home and being thus without any support, at the end of a quarter of an hour she had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother s entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir,"<|quote|>was information on Sarah s side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father s behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father s account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen s grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine s dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own. A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in which Henry talked at random, without sense or connection, and Catherine, rapt in the contemplation of her own unutterable happiness, scarcely opened her lips, dismissed them to the ecstasies of another t te- -t te; and before it was suffered to close, she was enabled to judge how far he was sanctioned by parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston, two days before, he had been met near the abbey by his impatient father, hastily informed in angry terms of Miss Morland s departure, and ordered to think of her no more. Such was the permission upon which he had now offered her his hand. The affrighted Catherine, amidst all the terrors of expectation, as she listened to this account, could not but rejoice in the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the necessity of a conscientious rejection, by engaging her faith before he mentioned the subject; and as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The general had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family. John Thorpe had first misled him. The general, perceiving his son one night at the theatre to be paying considerable attention to Miss Morland, had accidentally inquired of Thorpe if he knew more of her than her name. Thorpe, most happy to be on speaking terms with a man of General Tilney s importance, had been joyfully and proudly communicative; and being at that time not only in daily expectation of Morland s engaging Isabella, but likewise pretty well resolved upon marrying Catherine himself, his vanity induced him to represent the family as yet more wealthy than his vanity and avarice had made him believe them. With whomsoever he was, or was likely to be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs should be great, and as his intimacy with any acquaintance grew, so regularly grew their fortune. The expectations of his friend Morland, therefore, from the first overrated, had ever since his introduction to Isabella been gradually increasing; and by merely adding twice as much for the grandeur of the moment, by doubling what he chose to think the amount of Mr. Morland s preferment, trebling his private fortune, bestowing a rich aunt, and sinking half the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the peculiar object of the general s curiosity, and his own speculations, he had yet something more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds which her father could give her would be a pretty addition to Mr. Allen s estate. Her intimacy there had made him seriously determine on her being handsomely legacied hereafter; and to speak of her therefore as the almost acknowledged future heiress of Fullerton naturally followed. Upon such intelligence the general had proceeded; for never had it occurred to him to doubt its authority. Thorpe s interest in the family, by his sister s approaching connection with one of its members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness), seemed sufficient vouchers for his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts of the Allens being wealthy and childless, of Miss Morland s being under their care, and as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge of their treating her with parental kindness. His resolution was soon formed. Already had he discerned a liking towards Miss Morland in the countenance of his son; and thankful for Mr. Thorpe s communication, he almost instantly determined to spare no pains in weakening his boasted interest and ruining his dearest hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant at the time of all this, than his own children. Henry and Eleanor, perceiving nothing in her situation likely to engage their father s particular respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, continuance, and extent of his attention; and though latterly, from some hints which had accompanied an almost positive command to his son of doing everything in his power to attach her, Henry was convinced of his father s believing it to be an advantageous connection, it was not till the late explanation at Northanger that they had the smallest idea of the false calculations which had hurried him on. That they were false, the general had learnt from the very person who had suggested them, from Thorpe himself, whom he had chanced to meet again in town, and who, under the influence of exactly opposite feelings, irritated by Catherine s refusal, and yet more by the failure of a very recent endeavour to accomplish a reconciliation between Morland and Isabella, convinced that they were separated forever, and spurning a friendship which could be no longer serviceable, hastened to contradict all that he had said before to the advantage of the Morlands confessed himself to have been totally mistaken in his opinion of their circumstances and character, misled by the rhodomontade of his friend to believe his father a man of substance and credit, whereas the transactions of the two or three last weeks proved him to be neither; for after coming eagerly forward on the first overture of a marriage between the families, with the most liberal proposals, he had, on being brought to the point by the shrewdness of the relator, been constrained to acknowledge himself incapable of giving the young people even a decent support. They were, in fact, a necessitous family; numerous, too, almost beyond example; by no means respected in their own neighbourhood, as he had lately had particular opportunities of discovering; aiming at a style of life which their fortune could not warrant; seeking to better themselves by wealthy connections; a forward, bragging, scheming race. The terrified general pronounced the name of Allen with an inquiring look; and here too Thorpe had learnt his error. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them too long, and he knew the young man on whom the Fullerton estate must devolve. The general needed no more. Enraged with almost everybody in the world but himself, he set out the next day for the abbey, where his performances have been seen. I leave it to my reader s sagacity to determine how much of all this it was possible for Henry to communicate at this time to Catherine, how much of it he could have learnt from his father, in what points his own conjectures might assist him, and what portion must yet remain to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their ease what they must divide for mine. Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty. Henry, in having such things to relate of his father, was almost as pitiable as in their first avowal to himself. He blushed for the narrow-minded counsel which he was obliged to expose. The conversation between them at Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry s indignation on hearing how Catherine had been treated, on comprehending his father s views, and being ordered to acquiesce in them, had been open and bold. The general, accustomed on every ordinary occasion to give the law in his family, prepared for no reluctance but of feeling, no opposing desire that should dare to clothe itself in words, could ill brook the opposition of his son, steady as the sanction of reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But, in such a cause, his anger, though it must shock, could not intimidate Henry, who was sustained in his purpose by a conviction of its justice. He felt himself bound as much in honour as in affection to Miss Morland, and believing that heart to be his own which he had been directed to gain, no unworthy retraction of a tacit consent, no reversing decree of unjustifiable anger, could shake his fidelity, or influence the resolutions it prompted. He steadily refused to accompany his father into Herefordshire, an engagement formed almost at the moment to promote the dismissal of Catherine, and as steadily declared his intention of offering her his hand. The general was furious in his anger, and they parted in dreadful disagreement. Henry, in an agitation of mind which many solitary hours were required to compose, had returned almost instantly to Woodston, and, on the afternoon of the following day, had begun his journey to Fullerton. CHAPTER 31 Mr. and Mrs. Morland s surprise on being applied to by Mr. Tilney for their consent to his marrying their daughter was, for a few minutes, considerable, it having never entered their heads to suspect an attachment on either side; but as nothing, after all, could be more natural than Catherine s being beloved, they soon learnt to consider it with only the happy agitation of gratified pride, and, as far as they alone were concerned, had not a single objection to start. His pleasing manners and good sense were self-evident recommendations; and having never heard evil of him, it was not their way to suppose any evil could be told. Goodwill supplying the place of experience, his character needed no attestation.</|quote|>"Catherine would make a sad, heedless young housekeeper to be sure," was her mother s foreboding remark; but quick was the consolation of there being nothing like practice. There was but one obstacle, in short, to be mentioned; but till that one was removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their tempers were mild, but their principles were steady, and while his parent so expressly forbade the connection, they could not allow themselves to encourage it. That the general should come forward to solicit the alliance, or that he should even very heartily approve it, they were not refined enough to make any parading stipulation; but the decent appearance of consent must be yielded, and that once obtained and their own hearts made them trust that it could not be very long denied their willing approbation was instantly to follow. His _consent_ was all that they wished for. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his _money_. Of a very considerable fortune, his son was, by marriage settlements, eventually secure; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and under every pecuniary view, it was a match beyond the claims of their daughter. The young people could not be surprised at a decision like this. They felt and they deplored but they could not resent it; and they parted, endeavouring to hope that such a change in the general, as each believed almost impossible, might speedily take place, to unite them again in the fullness of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home, to watch over his young plantations, and extend his improvements for her sake, to whose share in them he looked anxiously forward; and Catherine remained at Fullerton to cry. Whether the torments of absence were softened by a clandestine correspondence, let us not inquire. Mr. and Mrs. Morland never did they had been too kind to exact any promise; and whenever Catherine received a letter, as, at that time, happened pretty often, they always looked another way. The anxiety, which in this state of their attachment must be the portion of Henry and Catherine, and of all who loved either, as to its final event, can hardly extend, I fear, to the bosom of my readers, who will see in the tell-tale compression of the pages before them, that we are all hastening together to perfect felicity. The means by which their early marriage was effected can be the only doubt: what probable circumstance could work upon a temper like the general s? The circumstance which chiefly availed was the marriage of his daughter with a man of fortune and consequence, which took place in the course of the summer an accession of dignity that threw him into a fit of good humour, from which he did not recover till after Eleanor had obtained his forgiveness of Henry, and his permission for him "to be a | Northanger Abbey |
"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where." | Mr. Woodhouse | Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the | never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do | to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question | myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the | with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are | a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!" "No, indeed--_we_ are not at all | you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends, and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now." "That's true," she cried--"very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited. Now, Mr. Knightley, a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were _both_ right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed." "A man cannot be more so," was his short, full answer. "Ah!--Indeed I am very sorry.--Come, shake hands with me." This had just taken place and with great cordiality, when John Knightley made his appearance, and "How d'ye do, George?" and "John, how are you?" succeeded in the true English style, burying under a calmness that seemed all but indifference, the real attachment which would have led either of them, if requisite, to do every thing for the good of the other. The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other. The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!" "No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost all the rest. We are so very airy! I should be unwilling, I own, to live in any other part of the town;--there is hardly any other that I could be satisfied to have my children in: but _we_ are so remarkably airy!--Mr. Wingfield thinks the vicinity of Brunswick Square decidedly the most favourable as to air." "Ah! my dear, it is not like Hartfield. You make the best of it--but after you have been a week at Hartfield, you are all of you different creatures; you do not look like the same. Now I cannot say, that I think you are any of you looking well at present." "I am sorry to hear you say so, sir; but I assure you, excepting those little nervous head-aches and palpitations which I am never entirely free from anywhere, I am quite well myself; and if the children were rather pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from their journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you will think better of their looks to-morrow; for I assure you Mr. Wingfield told me, that he did not believe he had ever sent us off altogether, in such good case. I trust, at least, that you do not think Mr. Knightley looking ill," turning her eyes with affectionate anxiety towards her husband. "Middling, my dear; I cannot compliment you. I think Mr. John Knightley very far from looking well." "What is the matter, sir?--Did you speak to me?" cried Mr. John Knightley, hearing his own name. "I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well--but I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home." "My dear Isabella,"--exclaimed he hastily--"pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I chuse." "I did not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother," cried Emma, "about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after | for the good of the other. The evening was quiet and conversable, as Mr. Woodhouse declined cards entirely for the sake of comfortable talk with his dear Isabella, and the little party made two natural divisions; on one side he and his daughter; on the other the two Mr. Knightleys; their subjects totally distinct, or very rarely mixing--and Emma only occasionally joining in one or the other. The brothers talked of their own concerns and pursuits, but principally of those of the elder, whose temper was by much the most communicative, and who was always the greater talker. As a magistrate, he had generally some point of law to consult John about, or, at least, some curious anecdote to give; and as a farmer, as keeping in hand the home-farm at Donwell, he had to tell what every field was to bear next year, and to give all such local information as could not fail of being interesting to a brother whose home it had equally been the longest part of his life, and whose attachments were strong. The plan of a drain, the change of a fence, the felling of a tree, and the destination of every acre for wheat, turnips, or spring corn, was entered into with as much equality of interest by John, as his cooler manners rendered possible; and if his willing brother ever left him any thing to inquire about, his inquiries even approached a tone of eagerness. While they were thus comfortably occupied, Mr. Woodhouse was enjoying a full flow of happy regrets and fearful affection with his daughter. "My poor dear Isabella," said he, fondly taking her hand, and interrupting, for a few moments, her busy labours for some one of her five children--"How long it is, how terribly long since you were here! And how tired you must be after your journey! You must go to bed early, my dear--and I recommend a little gruel to you before you go.--You and I will have a nice basin of gruel together. My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel." Emma could not suppose any such thing, knowing as she did, that both the Mr. Knightleys were as unpersuadable on that article as herself;--and two basins only were ordered. After a little more discourse in praise of gruel, with some wondering at its not being taken every evening by every body, he proceeded to say, with an air of grave reflection, "It was an awkward business, my dear, your spending the autumn at South End instead of coming here. I never had much opinion of the sea air." "Mr. Wingfield most strenuously recommended it, sir--or we should not have gone. He recommended it for all the children, but particularly for the weakness in little Bella's throat,--both sea air and bathing." "Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about the sea doing her any good; and as to myself, I have been long perfectly convinced, though perhaps I never told you so before, that the sea is very rarely of use to any body. I am sure it almost killed me once." "Come, come," cried Emma, feeling this to be an unsafe subject, "I must beg you not to talk of the sea. It makes me envious and miserable;--I who have never seen it! South End is prohibited, if you please. My dear Isabella, I have not heard you make one inquiry about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you." "Oh! good Mr. Perry--how is he, sir?"<|quote|>"Why, pretty well; but not quite well. Poor Perry is bilious, and he has not time to take care of himself--he tells me he has not time to take care of himself--which is very sad--but he is always wanted all round the country. I suppose there is not a man in such practice anywhere. But then there is not so clever a man any where."</|quote|>"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? do the children grow? I have a great regard for Mr. Perry. I hope he will be calling soon. He will be so pleased to see my little ones." "I hope he will be here to-morrow, for I have a question or two to ask him about myself of some consequence. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you had better let him look at little Bella's throat." "Oh! my dear sir, her throat is so much better that I have hardly any uneasiness about it. Either bathing has been of the greatest service to her, or else it is to be attributed to an excellent embrocation of Mr. Wingfield's, which we have been applying at times ever since August." "It is not very likely, my dear, that bathing should have been of use to her--and if I had known you were wanting an embrocation, I would have spoken to--" "You seem to me to have forgotten Mrs. and Miss Bates," said Emma, "I have not heard one inquiry after them." "Oh! the good Bateses--I am quite ashamed of myself--but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are quite well. Good old Mrs. Bates--I will call upon her to-morrow, and take my children.--They are always so pleased to see my children.--And that excellent Miss Bates!--such thorough worthy people!--How are they, sir?" "Why, pretty well, my dear, upon the whole. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago." "How sorry I am! But colds were never so prevalent as they have been this autumn. Mr. Wingfield told me that he has never known them more general or heavy--except when it has been quite an influenza." "That has been a good deal the case, my dear; but not to the degree you mention. Perry says that colds have been very general, but not so heavy as he has very often known them in November. Perry does not call it altogether a sickly season." "No, I do not know that Mr. Wingfield considers it _very_ sickly except--" "Ah! my poor dear child, the truth is, that in London it is always a sickly season. Nobody is healthy in London, nobody can be. It is a dreadful thing to have you forced to live there! so far off!--and the air so bad!" "No, indeed--_we_ are not at all in a bad air. Our part of London is very superior to most others!--You must not confound us with London in general, my dear sir. The neighbourhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost | Emma |
"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir." | Mrs. Sparsit | of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind | very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can | the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance | to become familiar with it by and by had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. "You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time." "What is the matter | pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble _you_ to take charge of the teapot." Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table. This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby's breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. "You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time." "What is the matter with you?" asked Louisa, coldly surprised. "What has given you offence?" "Offence!" repeated Bounderby. "Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn't name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don't go beating about for side-winds." "I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate," Louisa answered him composedly: "I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don't understand what you would have." "Have?" returned Mr. Bounderby. "Nothing. Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, | described her?" asked Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly. "You drew her portrait perfectly," said Mr. Harthouse. "Presented her dead image." "Very engaging, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one another. "Highly so." "It used to be considered," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but I confess she appears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that respect. Ay, and indeed here _is_ Mr. Bounderby!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as if she had been talking and thinking of no one else. "How do you find yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir." Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart, "You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the table," Mr. Bounderby replied, "If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, ma'am, I believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble _you_ to take charge of the teapot." Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table. This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby's breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. "You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time." "What is the matter with you?" asked Louisa, coldly surprised. "What has given you offence?" "Offence!" repeated Bounderby. "Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn't name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don't go beating about for side-winds." "I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate," Louisa answered him composedly: "I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don't understand what you would have." "Have?" returned Mr. Bounderby. "Nothing. Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?" She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the teacups ring, with a proud colour in her face that was a new change, Mr. Harthouse thought. "You are incomprehensible this morning," said Louisa. "Pray take no further trouble to explain yourself. I am not curious to know your meaning. What does it matter?" Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferent subjects. But from this day, the Sparsit action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and James Harthouse more together, and strengthened the dangerous alienation from her husband and confidence against him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so fine that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she ever tried or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart. Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this particular occasion, that, assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, and being then alone with him in the hall, she imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand, murmured "My benefactor!" and retired, overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is an indubitable fact, within the | highly connected, was not to be suspected of dropping over the banisters or sliding down them, yet her extraordinary facility of locomotion suggested the wild idea. Another noticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was, that she was never hurried. She would shoot with consummate velocity from the roof to the hall, yet would be in full possession of her breath and dignity on the moment of her arrival there. Neither was she ever seen by human vision to go at a great pace. She took very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, and had some pleasant conversation with him soon after her arrival. She made him her stately curtsey in the garden, one morning before breakfast. "It appears but yesterday, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that I had the honour of receiving you at the Bank, when you were so good as to wish to be made acquainted with Mr. Bounderby's address." "An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgotten by myself in the course of Ages," said Mr. Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsit with the most indolent of all possible airs. "We live in a singular world, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have had the honour, by a coincidence of which I am proud, to have made a remark, similar in effect, though not so epigrammatically expressed." "A singular world, I would say, sir," pursued Mrs. Sparsit; after acknowledging the compliment with a drooping of her dark eyebrows, not altogether so mild in its expression as her voice was in its dulcet tones; "as regards the intimacies we form at one time, with individuals we were quite ignorant of, at another. I recall, sir, that on that occasion you went so far as to say you were actually apprehensive of Miss Gradgrind." "Your memory does me more honour than my insignificance deserves. I availed myself of your obliging hints to correct my timidity, and it is unnecessary to add that they were perfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit's talent for in fact for anything requiring accuracy with a combination of strength of mind and Family is too habitually developed to admit of any question." He was almost falling asleep over this compliment; it took him so long to get through, and his mind wandered so much in the course of its execution. "You found Miss Gradgrind I really cannot call her Mrs. Bounderby; it's very absurd of me as youthful as I described her?" asked Mrs. Sparsit, sweetly. "You drew her portrait perfectly," said Mr. Harthouse. "Presented her dead image." "Very engaging, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, causing her mittens slowly to revolve over one another. "Highly so." "It used to be considered," said Mrs. Sparsit, "that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation, but I confess she appears to me considerably and strikingly improved in that respect. Ay, and indeed here _is_ Mr. Bounderby!" cried Mrs. Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times, as if she had been talking and thinking of no one else. "How do you find yourself this morning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir." Now, these persistent assuagements of his misery, and lightenings of his load, had by this time begun to have the effect of making Mr. Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs. Sparsit, and harder than usual to most other people from his wife downward. So, when Mrs. Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart, "You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare say Miss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside at the table," Mr. Bounderby replied, "If I waited to be taken care of by my wife, ma'am, I believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble _you_ to take charge of the teapot." Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table. This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby's breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. "You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time." "What is the matter with you?" asked Louisa, coldly surprised. "What has given you offence?" "Offence!" repeated Bounderby. "Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn't name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don't go beating about for side-winds." "I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate," Louisa answered him composedly: "I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don't understand what you would have." "Have?" returned Mr. Bounderby. "Nothing. Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?" She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the teacups ring, with a proud colour in her face that was a new change, Mr. Harthouse thought. "You are incomprehensible this morning," said Louisa. "Pray take no further trouble to explain yourself. I am not curious to know your meaning. What does it matter?" Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr. Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferent subjects. But from this day, the Sparsit action upon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and James Harthouse more together, and strengthened the dangerous alienation from her husband and confidence against him with another, into which she had fallen by degrees so fine that she could not retrace them if she tried. But whether she ever tried or no, lay hidden in her own closed heart. Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on this particular occasion, that, assisting Mr. Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, and being then alone with him in the hall, she imprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand, murmured "My benefactor!" and retired, overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is an indubitable fact, within the cognizance of this history, that five minutes after he had left the house in the self-same hat, the same descendant of the Scadgerses and connexion by matrimony of the Powlers, shook her right-hand mitten at his portrait, made a contemptuous grimace at that work of art, and said "Serve you right, you Noodle, and I am glad of it." Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone, when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come down by train, shrieking and rattling over the long line of arches that bestrode the wild country of past and present coal-pits, with an express from Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note to inform Louisa that Mrs. Gradgrind lay very ill. She had never been well within her daughter's knowledge; but, she had declined within the last few days, had continued sinking all through the night, and was now as nearly dead, as her limited capacity of being in any state that implied the ghost of an intention to get out of it, allowed. Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fit colourless servitor at Death's door when Mrs. Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled to Coketown, over the coal-pits past and present, and was whirled into its smoky jaws. She dismissed the messenger to his own devices, and rode away to her old home. She had seldom been there since her marriage. Her father was usually sifting and sifting at his parliamentary cinder-heap in London (without being observed to turn up many precious articles among the rubbish), and was still hard at it in the national dust-yard. Her mother had taken it rather as a disturbance than otherwise, to be visited, as she reclined upon her sofa; young people, Louisa felt herself all unfit for; Sissy she had never softened to again, since the night when the stroller's child had raised her eyes to look at Mr. Bounderby's intended wife. She had no inducements to go back, and had rarely gone. Neither, as she approached her old home now, did any of the best influences of old home descend upon her. The dreams of childhood its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane, impossible adornments of the world beyond: so good to be believed in once, so good to be remembered when outgrown, for then the least among them rises to the stature of a great Charity in the heart, suffering little children to come into the midst of it, | believe you know pretty well I should wait till Doomsday, so I'll trouble _you_ to take charge of the teapot." Mrs. Sparsit complied, and assumed her old position at table. This again made the excellent woman vastly sentimental. She was so humble withal, that when Louisa appeared, she rose, protesting she never could think of sitting in that place under existing circumstances, often as she had had the honour of making Mr. Bounderby's breakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind she begged pardon, she meant to say Miss Bounderby she hoped to be excused, but she really could not get it right yet, though she trusted to become familiar with it by and by had assumed her present position. It was only (she observed) because Miss Gradgrind happened to be a little late, and Mr. Bounderby's time was so very precious, and she knew it of old to be so essential that he should breakfast to the moment, that she had taken the liberty of complying with his request; long as his will had been a law to her. "There! Stop where you are, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "stop where you are! Mrs. Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved of the trouble, I believe."<|quote|>"Don't say that, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, almost with severity, "because that is very unkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkind is not to be you, sir."</|quote|>"You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. You can take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?" said Mr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife. "Of course. It is of no moment. Why should it be of any importance to me?" "Why should it be of any importance to any one, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby, swelling with a sense of slight. "You attach too much importance to these things, ma'am. By George, you'll be corrupted in some of your notions here. You are old-fashioned, ma'am. You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children's time." "What is the matter with you?" asked Louisa, coldly surprised. "What has given you offence?" "Offence!" repeated Bounderby. "Do you suppose if there was any offence given me, I shouldn't name it, and request to have it corrected? I am a straightforward man, I believe. I don't go beating about for side-winds." "I suppose no one ever had occasion to think you too diffident, or too delicate," Louisa answered him composedly: "I have never made that objection to you, either as a child or as a woman. I don't understand what you would have." "Have?" returned Mr. Bounderby. "Nothing. Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, know thoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, would have it?" She looked at him, as he struck the table and made the teacups ring, with a proud colour in her face that was a new change, Mr. Harthouse thought. "You are incomprehensible this morning," said Louisa. "Pray take no further trouble to explain yourself. I am not curious to | Hard Times |
"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." | Brett Ashley | "I'm going to the barber's."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"We _have_ got the loveliest | ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think | 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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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 | 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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "He's a good chap." "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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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 | 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." "He's a good chap." "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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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 | "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." "He's a good chap." "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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was: 'See America first!' I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. | "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." "He's a good chap." "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."<|quote|>"I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap."</|quote|>"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 Sun Also Rises |
"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?" | Elizabeth | behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in | deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her | satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, | Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will think no more about him." Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth. "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, | intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. "You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement." Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will think no more about him." Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth. "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance." "Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane, take care." "My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now." "I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever." * * * * * They did not see the | instant she felt, that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for moments of such painful confusion. "The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure, that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!" Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. "You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement." Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will think no more about him." Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth. "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance." "Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane, take care." "My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now." "I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever." * * * * * They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two, who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her. Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an admiration of her, which, | I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in the Times and the Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said," 'Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' "without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing. It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?" Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell. "It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married," continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay, I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the ----shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has _some_ friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves." Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley, whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed. "When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother, "I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please, on Mr. Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you." Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present, as had flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant she felt, that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends, for moments of such painful confusion. "The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure, that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!" Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. "You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement." Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will think no more about him." Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth. "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance." "Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane, take care." "My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now." "I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever." * * * * * They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two, who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her. Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm. His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as shewed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her, as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner, whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind; and she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell him, that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family. She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation, than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree, that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance, as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend. "If he does not come to me, _then_," said she, "I shall give him up for ever." The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy, that there was not a single vacancy near her, which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper, "The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them; do we?" Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied every one to whom he spoke, had scarcely | compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent. When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time. "You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement." Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern, at having been prevented by business. They then went away. Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there, that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses, could be good enough for a man, on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a-year. CHAPTER XII. As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.<|quote|>"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"</|quote|>She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure. "He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teazing, teazing, man! I will think no more about him." Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which shewed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth. "Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen, that on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance." "Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane, take care." "My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now." "I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever." * * * * * They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour, and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived. On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two, who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: | Pride And Prejudice |
"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word." | Anne Steele | unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined | nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was | sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find | a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. CHAPTER | the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall." "Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. CHAPTER XXXIII. After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister s entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray s in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business | make it appear that she did _not_. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?" "Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we d join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you." "There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour s end to another. Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy, my cousin said t other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I" I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine." "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won t do the Doctor is the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall." "Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. CHAPTER XXXIII. After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister s entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray s in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray s, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their s, she should pay her visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on | for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars. Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby s letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning. She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event. The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before. About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin s house in Bartlett s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality. Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town. "I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here _still_," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always thought I _should_. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a _month_. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word_." Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did _not_. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?" "Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we d join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you." "There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour s end to another. Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy, my cousin said t other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I" I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine." "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won t do the Doctor is the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall." "Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. CHAPTER XXXIII. After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister s entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray s in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray s, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their s, she should pay her visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray s shop, as in her own bedroom. At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray s shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive. Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days. "I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you | you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine." "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won t do the Doctor is the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall." "Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."<|quote|>"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me! I think she might see _us;_ and I am sure we would not speak a word."</|quote|>Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them. "Oh, if that s all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see _her_." Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy s sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other. CHAPTER XXXIII. After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister s entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray s in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray s, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their s, she should pay her visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray s shop, as in her own bedroom. At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the | Sense And Sensibility |
"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say." | Alexis Ivanovitch | outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste | better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the | seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I | have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I | you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, | to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face | in your native politeness, as well as in your tact and good sense. I feel sure that you will do what I suggest, even if it is only for the sake of this family which has received you as a kinsman into its bosom and has always loved and respected you." "Be so good as to observe," I remarked, "that the same family has just _expelled_ me from its bosom. All that you are saying you are saying but for show; but, when people have just said to you, Of course we do not wish to turn you out, yet, for the sake of appearance s, you must _permit_ yourself to be turned out, nothing can matter very much." "Very well, then," he said, in a sterner and more arrogant tone. "Seeing that my solicitations have had no effect upon you, it is my duty to mention that other measures will be taken. There exist here police, you must remember, and this very day they shall send you packing. Que diable! To think of a blanc bec like yourself challenging a person like the Baron to a duel! Do you suppose that you will be _allowed_ to do such things? Just try doing them, and see if any one will be afraid of you! The reason why I have asked you to desist is that I can see that your conduct is causing the General annoyance. Do you believe that the Baron could not tell his lacquey simply to put you out of doors?" "Nevertheless I should not GO out of doors," I retorted with absolute calm. "You are labouring under a delusion, Monsieur de Griers. The thing will be done in far better trim than you imagine. I was just about to start for Mr. Astley s, to ask him to be my intermediary in other words, my second. He has a strong liking for me, and I do not think that he will refuse. He will go and see the Baron on MY behalf, and the Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark. "I intend, on the contrary, to remain here." "That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my | Baron will certainly not decline to receive him. Although I am only a tutor a kind of subaltern, Mr. Astley is known to all men as the nephew of a real English lord, the Lord Piebroch, as well as a lord in his own right. Yes, you may be pretty sure that the Baron will be civil to Mr. Astley, and listen to him. Or, should he decline to do so, Mr. Astley will take the refusal as a personal affront to himself (for you know how persistent the English are?) and thereupon introduce to the Baron a friend of his own (and he has many friends in a good position). That being so, picture to yourself the issue of the affair an affair which will not quite end as you think it will." This caused the Frenchman to bethink him of playing the coward. "Really things may be as this fellow says," he evidently thought. "Really he _might_ be able to engineer another scene." "Once more I beg of you to let the matter drop," he continued in a tone that was now entirely conciliatory. "One would think that it actually _pleased_ you to have scenes! Indeed, it is a brawl rather than genuine satisfaction that you are seeking. I have said that the affair may prove to be diverting, and even clever, and that possibly you may attain something by it; yet none the less I tell you" (he said this only because he saw me rise and reach for my hat) "that I have come hither also to hand you these few words from a certain person. Read them, please, for I must take her back an answer." So saying, he took from his pocket a small, compact, wafer-sealed note, and handed it to me. In Polina s handwriting I read: "I hear that you are thinking of going on with this affair. You have lost your temper now, and are beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said,<|quote|>"you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say."</|quote|>"Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just | The Gambler |
she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly: | No speaker | love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think | who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will | them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, | steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little | going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment | Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her. "Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father," she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt | number of sisters and brothers dependent on him." "Ah, he has a mother?" Mrs. Hilbery inquired. "Yes. Rather a fine-looking old lady, with white hair." Katharine began to describe her visit, and soon Mrs. Hilbery elicited the facts that not only was the house of excruciating ugliness, which Ralph bore without complaint, but that it was evident that every one depended on him, and he had a room at the top of the house, with a wonderful view over London, and a rook. "A wretched old bird in a corner, with half its feathers out," she said, with a tenderness in her voice that seemed to commiserate the sufferings of humanity while resting assured in the capacity of Ralph Denham to alleviate them, so that Mrs. Hilbery could not help exclaiming: "But, Katharine, you _are_ in love!" at which Katharine flushed, looked startled, as if she had said something that she ought not to have said, and shook her head. Hastily Mrs. Hilbery asked for further details of this extraordinary house, and interposed a few speculations about the meeting between Keats and Coleridge in a lane, which tided over the discomfort of the moment, and drew Katharine on to further descriptions and indiscretions. In truth, she found an extraordinary pleasure in being thus free to talk to some one who was equally wise and equally benignant, the mother of her earliest childhood, whose silence seemed to answer questions that were never asked. Mrs. Hilbery listened without making any remark for a considerable time. She seemed to draw her conclusions rather by looking at her daughter than by listening to her, and, if cross-examined, she would probably have given a highly inaccurate version of Ralph Denham s life-history except that he was penniless, fatherless, and lived at Highgate all of which was much in his favor. But by means of these furtive glances she had assured herself that Katharine was in a state which gave her, alternately, the most exquisite pleasure and the most profound alarm. She could not help ejaculating at last: "It s all done in five minutes at a Registry Office nowadays, if you think the Church service a little florid which it is, though there are noble things in it." "But we don t want to be married," Katharine replied emphatically, and added, "Why, after all, isn t it perfectly possible to live together without being married?" Again Mrs. Hilbery looked discomposed, and, in her trouble, took up the sheets which were lying upon the table, and began turning them over this way and that, and muttering to herself as she glanced: "A plus B minus C equals _x y z_. It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, but Katharine fell silent and fingered her sheet of figures. "We have to have faith in our vision," Mrs. Hilbery resumed, glancing at the figures, which distressed her vaguely, and had some connection in her mind with the household accounts, "otherwise, as you say" She cast a lightning glance into the depths of disillusionment which were, perhaps, not altogether unknown to her. "Believe me, Katharine, it s the same for every one for me, too for your father," she said earnestly, and sighed. They looked together into the abyss and, as the elder of the two, she recovered herself first and asked: "But where is Ralph? Why isn t he here to see me?" Katharine s expression changed instantly. "Because he s not allowed to come here," she replied bitterly. Mrs. Hilbery brushed this aside. "Would there be time to send for him before luncheon?" she asked. Katharine looked at her as if, indeed, she were some magician. Once more she felt that instead of being a grown woman, used to advise and command, she was only a foot or two raised above the long grass and the little flowers and entirely dependent upon the figure of indefinite size whose head went up into the sky, whose hand was in hers, for guidance. "I m not happy without him," she said simply. Mrs. Hilbery nodded her head in a manner which indicated complete understanding, and the immediate conception of certain plans for the future. She swept up her flowers, breathed in their sweetness, and, humming a little song about a miller s daughter, left the room. The case upon which Ralph Denham was engaged that afternoon was not apparently receiving his full attention, and yet the affairs of the late John Leake of Dublin were sufficiently confused to need all the care that a solicitor could bestow upon them, if the widow Leake and the five Leake children of tender age were to receive any pittance at all. But the appeal to Ralph s humanity had little chance of being heard to-day; he was no longer a model of concentration. The partition so carefully erected between the different sections of his life had been broken down, with the result that though his eyes were fixed upon the last Will and Testament, he saw through the page a certain drawing-room in Cheyne Walk. He tried every device that had proved effective in the past for keeping up the partitions of the mind, until he could decently go home; but a little to his alarm he found himself assailed so persistently, as if from outside, by Katharine, that he launched forth desperately into an imaginary interview with her. She obliterated a bookcase full of law reports, and the corners and lines of the room underwent a curious softening of outline like that which sometimes makes a room unfamiliar at the moment of waking from sleep. By degrees, a pulse or stress began to beat at regular intervals in his mind, heaping his thoughts into waves to which words fitted themselves, and without much consciousness of what he was doing, he began to write on a sheet of draft paper what had the appearance of a poem lacking several words in each line. Not many lines had been set down, however, before he threw away his pen as violently as if that were responsible for | It s so dreadfully ugly, Katharine. That s what I feel so dreadfully ugly." Katharine took the sheets from her mother s hand and began shuffling them absent-mindedly together, for her fixed gaze seemed to show that her thoughts were intent upon some other matter. "Well, I don t know about ugliness," she said at length. "But he doesn t ask it of you?" Mrs. Hilbery exclaimed. "Not that grave young man with the steady brown eyes?" "He doesn t ask anything we neither of us ask anything." "If I could help you, Katharine, by the memory of what I felt" "Yes, tell me what you felt." Mrs. Hilbery, her eyes growing blank, peered down the enormously long corridor of days at the far end of which the little figures of herself and her husband appeared fantastically attired, clasping hands upon a moonlit beach, with roses swinging in the dusk. "We were in a little boat going out to a ship at night," she began. "The sun had set and the moon was rising over our heads. There were lovely silver lights upon the waves and three green lights upon the steamer in the middle of the bay. Your father s head looked so grand against the mast. It was life, it was death. The great sea was round us. It was the voyage for ever and ever." The ancient fairy-tale fell roundly and harmoniously upon Katharine s ears. Yes, there was the enormous space of the sea; there were the three green lights upon the steamer; the cloaked figures climbed up on deck. And so, voyaging over the green and purple waters, past the cliffs and the sandy lagoons and through pools crowded with the masts of ships and the steeples of churches here they were. The river seemed to have brought them and deposited them here at this precise point. She looked admiringly at her mother, that ancient voyager. "Who knows," exclaimed Mrs. Hilbery, continuing her reveries, "where we are bound for, or why, or who has sent us, or what we shall find who knows anything, except that love is our faith love"<|quote|>she crooned, and the soft sound beating through the dim words was heard by her daughter as the breaking of waves solemnly in order upon the vast shore that she gazed upon. She would have been content for her mother to repeat that word almost indefinitely a soothing word when uttered by another, a riveting together of the shattered fragments of the world. But Mrs. Hilbery, instead of repeating the word love, said pleadingly:</|quote|>"And you won t think those ugly thoughts again, will you, Katharine?" at which words the ship which Katharine had been considering seemed to put into harbor and have done with its seafaring. Yet she was in great need, if not exactly of sympathy, of some form of advice, or, at least, of the opportunity of setting forth her problems before a third person so as to renew them in her own eyes. "But then," she said, ignoring the difficult problem of ugliness, "you knew you were in love; but we re different. It seems," she continued, frowning a little as she tried to fix the difficult feeling, "as if something came to an end suddenly gave out faded an illusion as if when we think we re in love we make it up we imagine what doesn t exist. That s why it s impossible that we should ever marry. Always to be finding the other an illusion, and going off and forgetting about them, never to be certain that you cared, or that he wasn t caring for some one not you at all, the horror of changing from one state to the other, being happy one moment and miserable the next that s the reason why we can t possibly marry. At the same time," she continued, "we can t live without each other, because" Mrs. Hilbery waited patiently for the sentence to be completed, | Night And Day |
"To be sure," | Mrs. Sparsit | I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. | feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, | If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. | "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come | Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold | said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and | Thomas very much, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all." "Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive manner, "do you recollect my having said anything to you respecting names?" "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true that you did object to names being used, and they're always best avoided." "Please to remember that I have a charge here," said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. "I hold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improbable both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deemed it years ago, that he would ever become my patron, making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard him in that light. From Mr. Bounderby I have received every acknowledgment of my social station, and every recognition of my family descent, that I could possibly expect. More, far more. Therefore, to my patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not consider, I will not consider, I cannot consider," said Mrs. Sparsit, with a most extensive stock on hand of honour and morality, "that I _should_ be scrupulously true, if I allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that are unfortunately most unfortunately no doubt of that connected with his." Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged pardon. "No, Bitzer," continued Mrs. Sparsit, "say an individual, and I will hear you; say Mr. Thomas, and you must excuse me." "With the usual exception, ma'am," said Bitzer, trying back, "of an individual." "Ah h!" Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp, as taking up the conversation again at the point where it had been interrupted. "An individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, "has never been what he ought to have been, since he first came into the place. He is a dissipated, extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt, ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't a friend and relation at court, ma'am!" "Ah h!" said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melancholy shake of her head. "I only hope, ma'am," pursued Bitzer, "that his friend and relation may not supply him with the means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am, we know out of whose pocket _that_ money comes." "Ah h!" sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another melancholy shake of her head. "He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party I have alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am," said Bitzer. "Yes, Bitzer," said Mrs. Sparsit. "I have always pitied the delusion, always." "As to an individual, ma'am," said Bitzer, dropping his voice and drawing nearer, "he is as improvident as any of the people in this town. And you know what _their_ improvidence is, ma'am. No one could wish to know it better than a lady of your eminence does." "They would do well," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "to take example by you, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer to me, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and putting no more faith in anything than Lucifer. "I believe, sir," quoth Mrs. Sparsit, "you wished to see me." "I beg your pardon," he said, turning and removing his hat; "pray excuse me." "Humph!" thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a stately bend. "Five and thirty, good-looking, good figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes." All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in her womanly way like the Sultan who put his head in the pail of water merely in dipping down and coming up again. "Please to be seated, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Thank you. Allow me." He placed a chair for her, but remained himself carelessly lounging against the table. "I left my servant at the railway looking after the luggage very heavy train and vast quantity of it in the van and strolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it's _always_ as black as this?" "In general much blacker," returned Mrs. Sparsit, in her uncompromising way. "Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not a native, I think?" "No, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit. "It was once my good or ill fortune, as it may be before I became a widow to move in a very different sphere. My husband was a Powler." "Beg your pardon, really!" said the stranger. "Was ?" Mrs. Sparsit repeated, "A Powler." "Powler Family," said the stranger, after reflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a little more fatigued than before. "You must be very much bored here?" was the inference he drew from the communication. "I am the servant of circumstances, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "and I have long adapted myself to the governing power of my life." "Very philosophical," returned the stranger, "and very exemplary and laudable, and" It seemed to be scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he played with his watch-chain wearily. "May I be permitted to ask, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, "to what I am indebted for the favour of" "Assuredly," said the stranger. "Much obliged to you for reminding me. I am | now look at me, ma'am. I have put by a little, ma'am, already. That gratuity which I receive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it. I don't even go the length of my wages, though they're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as I have done, ma'am? What one person can do, another can do." This, again, was among the fictions of Coketown. Any capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder why the sixty thousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or less reproached them every one for not accomplishing the little feat. What I did you can do. Why don't you go and do it? "As to their wanting recreations, ma'am," said Bitzer, "it's stuff and nonsense. _I_ don't want recreations. I never did, and I never shall; I don't like 'em. As to their combining together; there are many of them, I have no doubt, that by watching and informing upon one another could earn a trifle now and then, whether in money or good will, and improve their livelihood. Then, why don't they improve it, ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rational creature, and it's what they pretend to want." "Pretend indeed!" said Mrs. Sparsit. "I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am, till it becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and families," said Bitzer. "Why look at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife and family. Why should they?" "Because they are improvident," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Yes, ma'am," returned Bitzer, "that's where it is. If they were more provident and less perverse, ma'am, what would they do? They would say, "While my hat covers my family," or "while my bonnet covers my family," as the case might be, ma'am" "I have only one to feed, and that's the person I most like to feed.""<|quote|>"To be sure,"</|quote|>assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin. "Thank you, ma'am," said Bitzer, knuckling his forehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs. Sparsit's improving conversation. "Would you wish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is there anything else that I could fetch you?" "Nothing just now, Bitzer." "Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturb you at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea, knowing your partiality for it," said Bitzer, craning a little to look over into the street from where he stood; "but there's a gentleman been looking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, and he has come across as if he was going to knock. That _is_ his knock, ma'am, no doubt." He stepped to the window; and looking out, and drawing in his head again, confirmed himself with, "Yes, ma'am. Would you wish the gentleman to be shown in, ma'am?" "I don't know who it can be," said Mrs. Sparsit, wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens. "A stranger, ma'am, evidently." "What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time of the evening, unless he comes upon some business for which he is too late, I don't know," said Mrs. Sparsit, "but I hold a charge in this establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and I will never shrink from it. If to see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I will see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer." Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs. Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated his knock so loudly that the light porter hastened down to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard, and then decamped up-stairs, that she might appear, if needful, with the greater dignity. "If you please, ma'am, the gentleman would wish to see you," said Bitzer, with his light eye at Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the interval by touching up her cap, took her classical features down-stairs again, and entered the board-room in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the city walls to treat with an invading general. The visitor having strolled to the window, and being then engaged in looking carelessly out, was as unmoved by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He stood whistling to himself with all imaginable coolness, with his hat still on, and a certain air of exhaustion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer, and in part from excessive gentility. For it was to be seen with half an eye that he was a thorough gentleman, made to the model of the time; weary of everything, and | Hard Times |
"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him." | Adela Quested | mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't | is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, | he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" | rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" | Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" "The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small | had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" "The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." | have you worry her whether she's well or ill," said Adela, leaving the sofa and taking his arm; then dropped it with a sigh and sat down again. But he was pleased she had rallied to him and surveyed his mother patronizingly. He had never felt easy with her. She was by no means the dear old lady outsiders supposed, and India had brought her into the open. "I shall attend your marriage, but not your trial," she informed them, tapping her knee; she had become very restless, and rather ungraceful. "Then I shall go to England." "You can't go to England in May, as you agreed." "I have changed my mind." "Well, we'd better end this unexpected wrangle," said the young man, striding about. "You appear to want to be left out of everything, and that's enough." "My body, my miserable body," she sighed. "Why isn't it strong? Oh, why can't I walk away and be gone? Why can't I finish my duties and be gone? Why do I get headaches and puff when I walk? And all the time this to do and that to do and this to do in your way and that to do in her way, and everything sympathy and confusion and bearing one another's burdens. Why can't this be done and that be done in my way and they be done and I at peace? Why has anything to be done, I cannot see. Why all this marriage, marriage? . . . The human race would have become a single person centuries ago if marriage was any use. And all this rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!" "What do you want?" he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" "The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." "But she thinks it." "Who cares what she thinks?" "Red nine on black ten" from the card-table. "She can think, and Fielding too, but there's such a thing as evidence, I suppose." "I know, but" "Is it again my duty to talk?" asked Mrs. Moore, looking up. "Apparently, as you keep interrupting me." "Only if you have anything sensible to say." "Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . ." and as when she had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. "Oh, why is everything still my duty? when shall I be free from your fuss? Was he in the cave and were you in the cave and on and on . . . and Unto us a Son is born, unto us a Child is given . . . and am I good and is he bad and are we saved? . . . and ending everything the echo." "I don't hear it so much," said Adela, moving towards her. "You send it away, you do nothing but good, you are so good." "I am not good, no, bad." She spoke more calmly and resumed her cards, saying as she turned them up, "A bad old woman, bad, bad, detestable. I used to be good with the children growing up, also I meet this young man in his mosque, I wanted him to be happy. Good, happy, small people. They do not exist, they were a dream. . . . But I will not help you to torture him for what he never did. There are different ways of evil and I prefer mine to yours." "Have you any evidence in the prisoner's favour?" said Ronny in the tones of the just official. "If so, it is your bounden duty to go into the witness-box for him instead of for us. No one will stop you." "One knows people's characters, as you call them," she retorted disdainfully, as if she really knew more than character but could not impart it. "I have heard both English and Indians speak well of him, and I felt it isn't the sort of thing he would do." "Feeble, mother, feeble." "Most feeble." "And most inconsiderate to Adela." Adela said: "It would be so appalling if I was wrong. I should take my own life." He turned on her | rubbish about love, love in a church, love in a cave, as if there is the least difference, and I held up from my business over such trifles!" "What do you want?" he said, exasperated. "Can you state it in simple language? If so, do." "I want my pack of patience cards." "Very well, get them." He found, as he expected, that the poor girl was crying. And, as always, an Indian close outside the window, a mali in this case, picking up sounds. Much upset, he sat silent for a moment, thinking over his mother and her senile intrusions. He wished he had never asked her to visit India, or become under any obligation to her. "Well, my dear girl, this isn't much of a home-coming," he said at last. "I had no idea she had this up her sleeve." Adela had stopped crying. An extraordinary expression was on her face, half relief, half horror. She repeated, "Aziz, Aziz." They all avoided mentioning that name. It had become synonymous with the power of evil. He was "the prisoner," "the person in question," "the defence," and the sound of it now rang out like the first note of new symphony. "Aziz . . . have I made a mistake?" "You're over-tired," he cried, not much surprised. "Ronny, he's innocent; I made an awful mistake." "Well, sit down anyhow." He looked round the room, but only two sparrows were chasing one another. She obeyed and took hold of his hand. He stroked it and she smiled, and gasped as if she had risen to the surface of the water, then touched her ear. "My echo's better." "That's good. You'll be perfectly well in a few days, but you must save yourself up for the trial. Das is a very good fellow, we shall all be with you." "But Ronny, dear Ronny, perhaps there oughtn't to be any trial." "I don't quite know what you're saying, and I don't think you do." "If Dr. Aziz never did it he ought to be let out." A shiver like impending death passed over Ronny. He said hurriedly, "He was let out until the Mohurram riot, when he had to be put in again." To divert her, he told her the story, which was held to be amusing. Nureddin had stolen the Nawab Bahadur's car and driven Aziz into a ditch in the dark. Both of them had fallen out, and Nureddin had cut his face open. Their wailing had been drowned by the cries of the faithful, and it was quite a time before they were rescued by the police. Nureddin was taken to the Minto Hospital, Aziz restored to prison, with an additional charge against him of disturbing the public peace. "Half a minute," he remarked when the anecdote was over, and went to the telephone to ask Callendar to look in as soon as he found it convenient, because she hadn't borne the journey well. When he returned, she was in a nervous crisis, but it took a different form she clung to him, and sobbed, "Help me to do what I ought. Aziz is good. You heard your mother say so." "Heard what?"<|quote|>"He's good; I've been so wrong to accuse him."</|quote|>"Mother never said so." "Didn't she?" she asked, quite reasonable, open to every suggestion anyway. "She never mentioned that name once." "But, Ronny, I heard her." "Pure illusion. You can't be quite well, can you, to make up a thing like that." "I suppose I can't. How amazing of me!" "I was listening to all she said, as far as it could be listened to; she gets very incoherent." "When her voice dropped she said it towards the end, when she talked about love love I couldn't follow, but just then she said: Doctor Aziz never did it.'" "Those words?" "The idea more than the words." "Never, never, my dear girl. Complete illusion. His name was not mentioned by anyone. Look here you are confusing this with Fielding's letter." "That's it, that's it," she cried, greatly relieved. "I knew I'd heard his name somewhere. I am so grateful to you for clearing this up it's the sort of mistake that worries me, and proves I'm neurotic." "So you won't go saying he's innocent again, will you? for every servant I've got is a spy." He went to the window. The mali had gone, or rather had turned into two small children impossible they should know English, but he sent them packing. "They all hate us," he explained. "It'll be all right after the verdict, for I will say this for them, they do accept the accomplished fact; but at present they're pouring out money like water to catch us tripping, and a remark like yours is the very thing they look out for. It would enable them to say it was a put-up job on the part of us officials. You see what I mean." Mrs. Moore came back, with the same air of ill-temper, and sat down with a flump by the card-table. To clear the confusion up, Ronny asked her point-blank whether she had mentioned the prisoner. She could not understand the question and the reason of it had to be explained. She replied: "I never said his name," and began to play patience. "I thought you said," Aziz is an innocent man,' "but it was in Mr. Fielding's letter." "Of course he is innocent," she answered indifferently: it was the first time she had expressed an opinion on the point. "You see, Ronny, I was right," said the girl. "You were not right, she never said it." "But she thinks it." "Who cares what she thinks?" "Red nine on black ten" from the card-table. "She can think, and Fielding too, but there's such a thing as evidence, I suppose." "I know, but" "Is it again my duty to talk?" asked Mrs. Moore, looking up. "Apparently, as you keep interrupting me." "Only if you have anything sensible to say." "Oh, how tedious . . . trivial . . ." and as when she had scoffed at love, love, love, her mind seemed to move towards them from a great distance and out of darkness. "Oh, why is everything still my duty? when shall I be free from your fuss? Was he in the cave and were you in the cave and on and on . . . and Unto us a Son is born, unto us a Child is given . . . and am I good and is | A Passage To India |
"How did you go bankrupt?" | Bill Gorton | letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike | after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." | it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike | months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I | box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the | of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, | beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals." "You must have some." "I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the river rose the plateau of the town. All along the old walls and ramparts people were standing. The three lines of fortifications made three black lines of people. Above the walls there were heads in the windows of the houses. At the far end of the plateau boys had climbed into the trees. "They must think something is going to happen," Brett said. "They want to see the bulls." Mike and Bill were on the other wall across the pit of the corral. They waved to us. People who had come late were standing behind us, pressing against us when other people crowded them. "Why don't they start?" Robert Cohn asked. A single mule was hitched to one of the cages and dragged it up against the gate in the corral wall. The men shoved and lifted it with crowbars into position against the gate. Men were standing on the wall ready to pull up the gate of the corral and then the gate of the cage. At the other end of the corral a gate opened and two steers came in, swaying their heads and trotting, their lean flanks swinging. They stood together at the far end, their heads toward the gate where the bull would enter. "They don't look happy," Brett said. The men on top of the wall leaned back and pulled up the door of the corral. Then they pulled up the door of the cage. I leaned way over the wall and tried to see into the cage. It was dark. Some one rapped on the cage with an iron bar. Inside something seemed to explode. The bull, striking into the wood from side to side with his horns, made a great noise. Then I saw a dark muzzle and | big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone."<|quote|>"How did you go bankrupt?"</|quote|>Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the stone wall of the corrals, with apertures in the stone that were like loopholes running all along the face of each corral. A ladder led up to the top of the wall, and people were climbing up the ladder and spreading down to stand on the walls that separated the two corrals. As we came up the ladder, walking across the grass under the trees, we passed the big, gray painted cages with the bulls in them. There was one bull in each travelling-box. They had come by train from a bull-breeding ranch in Castile, and had been unloaded off flat-cars at the station and brought up here to be let out of their cages into the corrals. Each cage was stencilled with the name and the brand of the bull-breeder. We climbed up and found a place on the wall looking down into the corral. The stone walls were whitewashed, and there was straw on the ground and wooden feed-boxes and water-troughs set against the wall. "Look up there," I said. Beyond the | The Sun Also Rises |
said Mrs. Moore. | No speaker | but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." | she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, | and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle | them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. | type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those curves at the | her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened." "Some misunderstanding," said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those curves at the bottom of the arches. What delicacy! It is the architecture of Question and Answer. Mrs. Moore, you are in India; I am not joking." The room inspired him. It was an audience hall built in the eighteenth century for some high official, and though of wood had reminded Fielding of the Loggia de' Lanzi at Florence. Little rooms, now Europeanized, clung to it on either side, but the central hall was unpapered and unglassed, and the air of the garden poured in freely. One sat in public on exhibition, as it were in full view of the gardeners who were screaming at the birds and of the man who rented the tank for the cultivation of water chestnut. Fielding let the mango trees too there was no knowing who might not come in and his servants sat on his steps night and day to discourage thieves. Beautiful certainly, and the Englishman had not spoilt it, whereas Aziz in an occidental moment would have hung Maude Goodmans on the walls. Yet there was no doubt to whom the room really belonged. . . . "I am doing justice here. A poor widow who has been robbed comes along and I give | Race, that. He said stiffly, "I do not consider Mrs. Moore my friend, I only met her accidentally in my mosque," and was adding "a single meeting is too short to make a friend," but before he could finish the sentence the stiffness vanished from it, because he felt Fielding's fundamental good will. His own went out to it, and grappled beneath the shifting tides of emotion which can alone bear the voyager to an anchorage but may also carry him across it on to the rocks. He was safe really as safe as the shore-dweller who can only understand stability and supposes that every ship must be wrecked, and he had sensations the shore-dweller cannot know. Indeed, he was sensitive rather than responsive. In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life though vivid was largely a dream. Fielding, for instance, had not meant that Indians are obscure, but that Post Impressionism is; a gulf divided his remark from Mrs. Turton's "Why, they speak English," but to Aziz the two sounded alike. Fielding saw that something had gone wrong, and equally that it had come right, but he didn't fidget, being an optimist where personal relations were concerned, and their talk rattled on as before. "Besides the ladies I am expecting one of my assistants Narayan Godbole." "Oho, the Deccani Brahman!" "He wants the past back too, but not precisely Alamgir." "I should think not. Do you know what Deccani Brahmans say? That England conquered India from them from them, mind, and not from the Moguls. Is not that like their cheek? They have even bribed it to appear in text-books, for they are so subtle and immensely rich. Professor Godbole must be quite unlike all other Deccani Brahmans from all I can hear say. A most sincere chap." "Why don't you fellows run a club in Chandrapore, Aziz?" "Perhaps some day . . . just now I see Mrs. Moore and what's her name coming." How fortunate that it was an "unconventional" party, where formalities are ruled out! On this basis Aziz found the English ladies easy to talk to, he treated them like men. Beauty would have troubled him, for it entails rules of its own, but Mrs. Moore was so old and Miss Quested so plain that he was spared this anxiety. Adela's angular body and the freckles on her face were terrible defects in his eyes, and he wondered how God could have been so unkind to any female form. His attitude towards her remained entirely straightforward in consequence. "I want to ask you something, Dr. Aziz," she began. "I heard from Mrs. Moore how helpful you were to her in the mosque, and how interesting. She learnt more about India in those few minutes' talk with you than in the three weeks since we landed." "Oh, please do not mention a little thing like that. Is there anything else I may tell you about my country?" "I want you to explain a disappointment we had this morning; it must be some point of Indian etiquette." "There honestly is none," he replied. "We are by nature a most informal people." "I am afraid we must have made some blunder and given offence," said Mrs. Moore. "That is even more impossible. But may I know the facts?" "An Indian lady and gentleman were to send their carriage for us this morning at nine. It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened." "Some misunderstanding," said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those curves at the bottom of the arches. What delicacy! It is the architecture of Question and Answer. Mrs. Moore, you are in India; I am not joking." The room inspired him. It was an audience hall built in the eighteenth century for some high official, and though of wood had reminded Fielding of the Loggia de' Lanzi at Florence. Little rooms, now Europeanized, clung to it on either side, but the central hall was unpapered and unglassed, and the air of the garden poured in freely. One sat in public on exhibition, as it were in full view of the gardeners who were screaming at the birds and of the man who rented the tank for the cultivation of water chestnut. Fielding let the mango trees too there was no knowing who might not come in and his servants sat on his steps night and day to discourage thieves. Beautiful certainly, and the Englishman had not spoilt it, whereas Aziz in an occidental moment would have hung Maude Goodmans on the walls. Yet there was no doubt to whom the room really belonged. . . . "I am doing justice here. A poor widow who has been robbed comes along and I give her fifty rupees, to another a hundred, and so on and so on. I should like that." Mrs. Moore smiled, thinking of the modern method as exemplified in her son. "Rupees don't last for ever, I'm afraid," she said. "Mine would. God would give me more when he saw I gave. Always be giving, like the Nawab Bahadur. My father was the same, that is why he died poor." And pointing about the room he peopled it with clerks and officials, all benevolent because they lived long ago. "So we would sit giving for ever on a carpet instead of chairs, that is the chief change between now and then, but I think we would never punish anyone." The ladies agreed. "Poor criminal, give him another chance. It only makes a man worse to go to prison and be corrupted." His face grew very tender the tenderness of one incapable of administration, and unable to grasp that if the poor criminal is let off he will again rob the poor widow. He was tender to everyone except a few family enemies whom he did not consider human: on these he desired revenge. He was even tender to the English; he knew at the bottom of his heart that they could not help being so cold and odd and circulating like an ice stream through his land. "We punish no one, no one," he repeated, "and in the evening we will give a great banquet with a nautch and lovely girls shall shine on every side of the tank with fireworks in their hands, and all shall be feasting and happiness until the next day, when there shall be justice as before fifty rupees, a hundred, a thousand till peace comes. Ah, why didn't we live in that time? But are you admiring Mr. Fielding's house? Do look how the pillars are painted blue, and the verandah's pavilions what do you call them? that are above us inside are blue also. Look at the carving on the pavilions. Think of the hours it took. Their little roofs are curved to imitate bamboo. So pretty and the bamboos waving by the tank outside. Mrs. Moore! Mrs. Moore!" "Well?" she said, laughing. "You remember the water by our mosque? It comes down and fills this tank a skilful arrangement of the Emperors. They stopped here going down into Bengal. They loved water. Wherever | It has never come. We waited and waited and waited; we can't think what happened." "Some misunderstanding," said Fielding, seeing at once that it was the type of incident that had better not be cleared up. "Oh no, it wasn't that," Miss Quested persisted. "They even gave up going to Calcutta to entertain us. We must have made some stupid blunder, we both feel sure." "I wouldn't worry about that." "Exactly what Mr. Heaslop tells me," she retorted, reddening a little. "If one doesn't worry, how's one to understand?" The host was inclined to change the subject, but Aziz took it up warmly, and on learning fragments of the delinquents' name pronounced that they were Hindus. "Slack Hindus they have no idea of society; I know them very well because of a doctor at the hospital. Such a slack, unpunctual fellow! It is as well you did not go to their house, for it would give you a wrong idea of India. Nothing sanitary. I think for my own part they grew ashamed of their house and that is why they did not send." "That's a notion," said the other man. "I do so hate mysteries," Adela announced. "We English do." "I dislike them not because I'm English, but from my own personal point of view," she corrected. "I like mysteries but I rather dislike muddles,"<|quote|>said Mrs. Moore.</|quote|>"A mystery is a muddle." "Oh, do you think so, Mr. Fielding?" "A mystery is only a high-sounding term for a muddle. No advantage in stirring it up, in either case. Aziz and I know well that India's a muddle." "India's Oh, what an alarming idea!" "There'll be no muddle when you come to see me," said Aziz, rather out of his depth. "Mrs. Moore and everyone I invite you all oh, please." The old lady accepted: she still thought the young doctor excessively nice; moreover, a new feeling, half languor, half excitement, bade her turn down any fresh path. Miss Quested accepted out of adventure. She also liked Aziz, and believed that when she knew him better he would unlock his country for her. His invitation gratified her, and she asked him for his address. Aziz thought of his bungalow with horror. It was a detestable shanty near a low bazaar. There was practically only one room in it, and that infested with small black flies. "Oh, but we will talk of something else now," he exclaimed. "I wish I lived here. See this beautiful room! Let us admire it together for a little. See those curves at the bottom of the arches. What delicacy! It is the architecture of Question and Answer. Mrs. Moore, you are in India; I am not joking." The room inspired him. It was an audience hall built in the eighteenth century for some high official, and though of wood had reminded Fielding of the Loggia de' Lanzi at Florence. Little rooms, now Europeanized, clung to it on either side, but the central hall was unpapered and unglassed, and the air of the garden poured in freely. One sat in public on exhibition, as it were in full view of the gardeners who were screaming at the birds and of the man who rented the tank for the cultivation of water chestnut. Fielding let the mango trees too there was no knowing who might not come in and his servants sat on his steps night and day to discourage thieves. Beautiful certainly, and the Englishman had not spoilt it, whereas Aziz in an occidental moment would have hung Maude Goodmans on the walls. Yet there was no doubt to whom the room really belonged. . . . "I am doing justice here. A poor widow who has been robbed comes along | A Passage To India |
"About that dreadful afternoon in February." | Lucy | she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. | be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't | distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at | book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a | been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle. "Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss | slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone. Chapter XVI: Lying to George But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it. She sent for Miss Bartlett. The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle. "Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source.' You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent | If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go." This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again. "Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had been murdered in the sight of God and--according to her son--had seen as far as Hindhead. "Am I really to go?" asked George. "No, of course not really," she answered. "Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't bothering you." Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences. She thought she had gone mad. "Here--hand me the book." She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too silly to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to be printed." He took the book from her. "'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season was spring.'" Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for George to hear. "'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'" Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face. He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'" "This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them, "there is another much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves. "Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady. She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path. "No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him. As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone. Chapter XVI: Lying to George But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it. She sent for Miss Bartlett. The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle. "Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source.' You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Can't you speak again to him now?" "Willingly would I move heaven and earth--" "I want something more definite," said Lucy contemptuously. "Will you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word." "Never again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself. "Yes or no, please; yes or no." "It is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle." George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand. "Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "No one will help me. I will speak to him myself." And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along. "Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace. "Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--" They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. | if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone. Chapter XVI: Lying to George But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--I must write some letters," and went up to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it. She sent for Miss Bartlett. The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown." Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle. "Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?" Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart. "There is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?" "Dear--?" "Do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "They are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance." "My good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever." "There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you." "Told her what?" she asked, with growing agitation.<|quote|>"About that dreadful afternoon in February."</|quote|>Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't put that in her book?" Lucy nodded. "Not so that one could recognize it. Yes." "Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine." "So you did tell?" "I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course of conversation--" "But Charlotte--what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn't even let me tell mother?" "I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence." "Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing." Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence. Lucy stamped with irritation. "Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden." Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "What is to be done now? Can you tell me?" "Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospects--" "I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source.' You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable." It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl, despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?" Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage. "He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip." Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip. "Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?" "I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath." "Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know." Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels. "You were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to | A Room With A View |
"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?" | Winnie-the-pooh | what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll | said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to | was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do | he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden | was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case | for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A | say anything," said Rabbit, "that one of us was eating too much," said Rabbit, "and I knew if wasn't _me_," he said. "Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin." Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again. "I was just beginning to think," said Bear, sniffing slightly, "that Rabbit might never be able to use his front door again. And I should _hate_ that," he said. "So should I," said Rabbit. "Use his front door again?" said Christopher Robin. "Of course he'll use his front door again." "Good," said Rabbit. "If we can't pull you out, Pooh, we might push you back." Rabbit scratched his whiskers thoughtfully, and pointed out that, when once Pooh was pushed back, he was back, and of course nobody was more glad to see Pooh than _he_ was, still there it was, some lived in trees and some lived underground, and---- "You mean I'd _never_ get out?" said Pooh. "I mean," said Rabbit, "that having got _so_ far, it seems a pity to waste it." Christopher Robin nodded. "Then there's only one thing to be done," he said. "We shall have to wait for you to get thin again." "How long does getting thin take?" asked Pooh anxiously. "About a week, I should think." "But I can't stay here for a _week_!" "You can _stay_ here all right, silly old Bear. It's getting you out which is so difficult." "We'll read to you," said Rabbit cheerfully. "And I hope it won't snow," he added. "And I say, old fellow, you're taking up a good deal of room in my house--_do_ you mind if I use your back legs as a towel-horse? Because, I mean, there they are--doing nothing--and it would be very convenient just to hang the towels on them." "A week!" said Pooh gloomily. "_What about meals?_" "I'm afraid no meals," said Christopher Robin, "because of getting thin quicker. But we _will_ read to you." Bear began to sigh, and then found he couldn't because he was so tightly stuck; and a tear rolled down his eye, as he said: "Then would you read a Sustaining Book, such as would help and comfort a Wedged Bear in Great Tightness?" So for a week Christopher Robin read that sort of book at the North end of Pooh, and Rabbit hung his washing on the South end ... and in between Bear felt himself getting slenderer and slenderer. And at the end of the week Christopher Robin said, "_Now!_" So he took hold of Pooh's front paws and Rabbit took hold of Christopher Robin, and all Rabbit's friends and relations took hold of Rabbit, and they all pulled together.... And for a long time Pooh only said "_Ow!_" ... And "_Oh!_" ... And then, all of a sudden, he said "_Pop!_" just as if a cork were coming out of a bottle. And Christopher Robin and Rabbit and all Rabbit's friends and relations went head-over-heels backwards ... and on the top of them came Winnie-the-Pooh--free! So, with a nod of thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!" cried Piglet. "Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be if they met Christopher Robin suddenly but quite accidentally, and only because he liked Christopher Robin so much. And then, all of a sudden, Winnie-the-Pooh stopped again, and licked the tip of his nose in a cooling manner, for he was feeling more hot and anxious than ever in his life before. _There were four animals in front of them!_ "Do you see, Piglet? Look at their tracks! Three, as it were, Woozles, and one, as it was, Wizzle. _Another Woozle has joined them!_" And so it seemed to be. There were the tracks; crossing over each other here, getting muddled up with each other there; but, quite plainly every now and then, the tracks of four sets of paws. "I _think_," said Piglet, when he had licked the tip of his nose too, and found that it brought very little comfort, "I _think_ that I have just remembered something. I have just remembered something that I forgot to do yesterday and shan't be able to do to-morrow. So I suppose I really ought to go back and do it now." "We'll do it this afternoon, and I'll come with you," said Pooh. "It isn't the sort of thing you can do in the afternoon," said Piglet quickly. "It's a very particular morning thing, that has to be done in the morning, and, if possible, between the hours of----What would you say the time was?" "About twelve," said Winnie-the-Pooh, looking at the sun. "Between, as I was saying, the hours of twelve and twelve five. So, really, dear old Pooh, if you'll excuse me----_What's that?_" Pooh looked up at the sky, and then, as he heard the whistle again, he looked up into the branches of a big oak-tree, and then he saw a friend of his. | thanks to his friends, he went on with his walk through the forest, humming proudly to himself. But, Christopher Robin looked after him lovingly, and said to himself, "Silly old Bear!" CHAPTER III IN WHICH POOH AND PIGLET GO HUNTING AND NEARLY CATCH A WOOZLE The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the middle of a beech-tree, and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest, and the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of broken board which had: "TRESPASSERS W" on it. When Christopher Robin asked the Piglet what it meant, he said it was his grandfather's name, and had been in the family for a long time, Christopher Robin said you _couldn't_ be called Trespassers W, and Piglet said yes, you could, because his grandfather was, and it was short for Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. And his grandfather had had two names in case he lost one--Trespassers after an uncle, and William after Trespassers. "I've got two names," said Christopher Robin carelessly. "Well, there you are, that proves it," said Piglet. One fine winter's day when Piglet was brushing away the snow in front of his house, he happened to look up, and there was Winnie-the-Pooh. Pooh was walking round and round in a circle, thinking of something else, and when Piglet called to him, he just went on walking. "Hallo!" said Piglet, "what are _you_ doing?" "Hunting," said Pooh. "Hunting what?" "Tracking something," said Winnie-the-Pooh very mysteriously. "Tracking what?" said Piglet, coming closer.<|quote|>"That's just what I ask myself. I ask myself, What?"</|quote|>"What do you think you'll answer?" "I shall have to wait until I catch up with it," said Winnie-the-Pooh. "Now, look there." He pointed to the ground in front of him. "What do you see there?" "Tracks," said Piglet. "Paw-marks." He gave a little squeak of excitement. "Oh, Pooh! Do you think it's a--a--a Woozle?" "It may be," said Pooh. "Sometimes it is, and sometimes it isn't. You never can tell with paw-marks." With these few words he went on tracking, and Piglet, after watching him for a minute or two, ran after him. Winnie-the-Pooh had come to a sudden stop, and was bending over the tracks in a puzzled sort of way. "What's the matter?" asked Piglet. "It's a very funny thing," said Bear, "but there seem to be _two_ animals now. This--whatever-it-was--has been joined by another--whatever-it-is--and the two of them are now proceeding in company. Would you mind coming with me, Piglet, in case they turn out to be Hostile Animals?" Piglet scratched his ear in a nice sort of way, and said that he had nothing to do until Friday, and would be delighted to come, in case it really _was_ a Woozle. "You mean, in case it really is two Woozles," said Winnie-the-Pooh, and Piglet said that anyhow he had nothing to do until Friday. So off they went together. There was a small spinney of larch trees just here, and it seemed as if the two Woozles, if that is what they were, had been going round this spinney; so round this spinney went Pooh and Piglet after them; Piglet passing the time by telling Pooh what his Grandfather Trespassers W had done to Remove Stiffness after Tracking, and how his Grandfather Trespassers W had suffered in his later years from Shortness of Breath, and other matters of interest, and Pooh wondering what a Grandfather was like, and if perhaps this was Two Grandfathers they were after now, and, if so, whether he would be allowed to take one home and keep it, and what Christopher Robin would say. And still the tracks went on in front of them.... Suddenly Winnie-the-Pooh stopped, and pointed excitedly in front of him. "_Look!_" "_What?_" said Piglet, with a jump. And then, to show that he hadn't been frightened, he jumped up and down once or twice more in an exercising sort of way. "The tracks!" said Pooh. "_A third animal has joined the other two!_" "Pooh!" cried Piglet. "Do you think it is another Woozle?" "No," said Pooh, "because it makes different marks. It is either Two Woozles and one, as it might be, Wizzle, or Two, as it might be, Wizzles and one, if so it is, Woozle. Let us continue to follow them." So they went on, feeling just a little anxious now, in case the three animals in front of them were of Hostile Intent. And Piglet wished very much that his Grandfather T. W. were there, instead of elsewhere, and Pooh thought how nice it would be | Winnie The Pooh |
"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake." | Gabriel Syme | President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the | "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said | almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said | it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side. CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming | bad as you say," said the Professor, somewhat shaken. "There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists." "Do ordinary tourists," asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, "wear black masks half-way down the face?" Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side. CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out." "Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously; "no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass. Then he turned to the others and said | remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it." Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way. "It was a habit of the late Marquis de St. Eustache," said the new policeman, producing a leather case, "always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles." He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes. "It cannot be as bad as you say," said the Professor, somewhat shaken. "There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists." "Do ordinary tourists," asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, "wear black masks half-way down the face?" Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side. CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out." "Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously; "no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass. Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely "There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me." With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees. The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man's head | that, I'll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can't fight for civilization." Dr. Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting. "Don't make too much noise," said Inspector Ratcliffe, "Sunday may hear you." "Sunday!" cried Bull, and dropped his hat. "Yes," retorted Ratcliffe, "he may be with them." "With whom?" asked Syme. "With the people out of that train," said the other. "What you say seems utterly wild," began Syme. "Why, as a matter of fact But, my God," he cried out suddenly, like a man who sees an explosion a long way off, "by God! if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy! Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary. What can it mean?" "Mean!" said the new policeman with incredible violence. "It means that we are struck dead! Don't you know Sunday? Don't you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one has never thought of them? Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme? I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line especially of _that_ railway line!" and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station. "The whole movement was controlled by him; half the world was ready to rise for him. But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him... and the old devil put them on the Supreme Council, to waste their time in watching each other. Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies! Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France. And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we five idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man's buff." "Well?" asked Syme with a sort of steadiness. "Well," replied the other with sudden serenity, "he has found us playing blind man's buff today in a field of great rustic beauty and extreme solitude. He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it." Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way. "It was a habit of the late Marquis de St. Eustache," said the new policeman, producing a leather case, "always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles." He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes. "It cannot be as bad as you say," said the Professor, somewhat shaken. "There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists." "Do ordinary tourists," asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, "wear black masks half-way down the face?" Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side. CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out." "Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously; "no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass. Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely "There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me." With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees. The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man's head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme's overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men's faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside), seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe. As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis's straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation. "May I ask," he said, "where on earth we are all | or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles." He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes. "It cannot be as bad as you say," said the Professor, somewhat shaken. "There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists." "Do ordinary tourists," asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, "wear black masks half-way down the face?" Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side. CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE Syme put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief. "The President is not with them, anyhow," he said, and wiped his forehead. "But surely they are right away on the horizon," said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull's hasty though polite explanation. "Could you possibly know your President among all those people?"<|quote|>"Could I know a white elephant among all those people!" answered Syme somewhat irritably. "As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake."</|quote|>After an instant's pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision "Of course the President isn't with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul's Cathedral." "This is absurd!" said Syme. "Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true," he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, "it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out." "Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously; "no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value we are not much, my boy, in Sunday's universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary," and he spat on the grass. Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely "There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me." With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees. The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play." | Daisy Miller | back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t | girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother | My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, | better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an | said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn | going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He s only nine. He s going to college." And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. "That English lady in the cars," she said--"Miss | "I don t know," she said. "I suppose it s some mountain. Randolph, what mountain are we going over?" "Going where?" the child demanded. "To Italy," Winterbourne explained. "I don t know," said Randolph. "I don t want to go to Italy. I want to go to America." "Oh, Italy is a beautiful place!" rejoined the young man. "Can you get candy there?" Randolph loudly inquired. "I hope not," said his sister. "I guess you have had enough candy, and mother thinks so too." "I haven t had any for ever so long--for a hundred weeks!" cried the boy, still jumping about. The young lady inspected her flounces and smoothed her ribbons again; and Winterbourne presently risked an observation upon the beauty of the view. He was ceasing to be embarrassed, for he had begun to perceive that she was not in the least embarrassed herself. There had not been the slightest alteration in her charming complexion; she was evidently neither offended nor flattered. If she looked another way when he spoke to her, and seemed not particularly to hear him, this was simply her habit, her manner. Yet, as he talked a little more and pointed out some of the objects of interest in the view, with which she appeared quite unacquainted, she gradually gave him more of the benefit of her glance; and then he saw that this glance was perfectly direct and unshrinking. It was not, however, what would have been called an immodest glance, for the young girl s eyes were singularly honest and fresh. They were wonderfully pretty eyes; and, indeed, Winterbourne had not seen for a long time anything prettier than his fair countrywoman s various features--her complexion, her nose, her ears, her teeth. He had a great relish for feminine beauty; he was addicted to observing and analyzing it; and as regards this young lady s face he made several observations. It was not at all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He s only nine. He s going to college." And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. "That English lady in the cars," she said--"Miss Featherstone--asked me if we didn t all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so many--it s nothing but hotels." But Miss Miller did not make this remark with a querulous accent; she appeared to be in the best humor with everything. She declared that the hotels were very good, when once you got used to their ways, and that Europe was perfectly sweet. She was not disappointed--not a bit. Perhaps it was because she had heard so much about it before. She had ever so many intimate friends that had been there ever so many times. And then she had had ever so many dresses and things from Paris. Whenever she put on a Paris dress she felt as if she were in Europe. "It was a kind of a wishing cap," said Winterbourne. "Yes," said Miss Miller without examining this analogy; "it always made me wish I was here. But I needn t have done that for dresses. I am sure they send all the pretty ones to America; you see the most frightful things here. The only thing I don t like," she proceeded, "is the society. There isn t any society; or, if there is, I don t know where it keeps itself. Do you? I suppose there is some society somewhere, but I haven t seen anything of it. I m very fond of society, and I have always had a great deal of it. I don t mean only in Schenectady, but in New York. I used to go to New York every winter. In New York I had lots of society." "Last winter I had seventeen dinners given me; and three of them were by gentlemen," added Daisy Miller. "I have more friends in New York than in Schenectady--more gentleman friends; and more young lady friends too," she resumed in a moment. She paused again for an instant; she was looking at Winterbourne with all her prettiness in her lively eyes and in her light, slightly monotonous smile. "I have always had," she said, "a great deal of gentlemen s society." Poor Winterbourne was amused, perplexed, and decidedly charmed. He had never yet heard a young girl express herself in just this fashion; never, at least, save in cases where to | all insipid, but it was not exactly expressive; and though it was eminently delicate, Winterbourne mentally accused it--very forgivingly--of a want of finish. He thought it very possible that Master Randolph s sister was a coquette; he was sure she had a spirit of her own; but in her bright, sweet, superficial little visage there was no mockery, no irony. Before long it became obvious that she was much disposed toward conversation. She told him that they were going to Rome for the winter--she and her mother and Randolph. She asked him if he was a "real American" "; she shouldn t have taken him for one; he seemed more like a German--this was said after a little hesitation--especially when he spoke. Winterbourne, laughing, answered that he had met Germans who spoke like Americans, but that he had not, so far as he remembered, met an American who spoke like a German. Then he asked her if she should not be more comfortable in sitting upon the bench which he had just quitted. She answered that she liked standing up and walking about; but she presently sat down. She told him she was from New York State--" "if you know where that is." Winterbourne learned more about her by catching hold of her small, slippery brother and making him stand a few minutes by his side. "Tell me your name, my boy," he said. "Randolph C. Miller," said the boy sharply. "And I ll tell you her name;" and he leveled his alpenstock at his sister. "You had better wait till you are asked!" said this young lady calmly. "I should like very much to know your name," said Winterbourne. "Her name is Daisy Miller!" cried the child. "But that isn t her real name; that isn t her name on her cards." "It s a pity you haven t got one of my cards!" said Miss Miller. "Her real name is Annie P. Miller," the boy went on. "Ask him HIS name," said his sister, indicating Winterbourne. But on this point Randolph seemed perfectly indifferent; he continued to supply information with regard to his own family. "My father s name is Ezra B. Miller," he announced. "My father ain t in Europe; my father s in a better place than Europe." Winterbourne imagined for a moment that this was the manner in which the child had been taught to intimate that Mr. Miller had been removed to the sphere of celestial reward. But Randolph immediately added, "My father s in Schenectady. He s got a big business. My father s rich, you bet!" "Well!" ejaculated Miss Miller, lowering her parasol and looking at the embroidered border. Winterbourne presently released the child, who departed, dragging his alpenstock along the path. "He doesn t like Europe," said the young girl. "He wants to go back." "To Schenectady, you mean?"<|quote|>"Yes; he wants to go right home. He hasn t got any boys here. There is one boy here, but he always goes round with a teacher; they won t let him play."</|quote|>"And your brother hasn t any teacher?" Winterbourne inquired. "Mother thought of getting him one, to travel round with us. There was a lady told her of a very good teacher; an American lady--perhaps you know her--Mrs. Sanders. I think she came from Boston. She told her of this teacher, and we thought of getting him to travel round with us. But Randolph said he didn t want a teacher traveling round with us. He said he wouldn t have lessons when he was in the cars. And we ARE in the cars about half the time. There was an English lady we met in the cars--I think her name was Miss Featherstone; perhaps you know her. She wanted to know why I didn t give Randolph lessons--give him instruction, she called it. I guess he could give me more instruction than I could give him. He s very smart." "Yes," said Winterbourne; "he seems very smart." "Mother s going to get a teacher for him as soon as we get to Italy. Can you get good teachers in Italy?" "Very good, I should think," said Winterbourne. "Or else she s going to find some school. He ought to learn some more. He s only nine. He s going to college." And in this way Miss Miller continued to converse upon the affairs of her family and upon other topics. She sat there with her extremely pretty hands, ornamented with very brilliant rings, folded in her lap, and with her pretty eyes now resting upon those of Winterbourne, now wandering over the garden, the people who passed by, and the beautiful view. She talked to Winterbourne as if she had known him a long time. He found it very pleasant. It was many years since he had heard a young girl talk so much. It might have been said of this unknown young lady, who had come and sat down beside him upon a bench, that she chattered. She was very quiet; she sat in a charming, tranquil attitude; but her lips and her eyes were constantly moving. She had a soft, slender, agreeable voice, and her tone was decidedly sociable. She gave Winterbourne a history of her movements and intentions and those of her mother and brother, in Europe, and enumerated, in particular, the various hotels at which they had stopped. "That English lady in the cars," she said--"Miss Featherstone--asked me if we didn t all live in hotels in America. I told her I had never been in so many hotels in my life as since I came to Europe. I have never seen so many--it s | Daisy Miller |
"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country." | Elizabeth | arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of | began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that | took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim | after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There | her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to | was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the t?te-?-t?te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. | explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the t?te-?-t?te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected. "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle. "There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it." "I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling." "To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham; or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so disagreeable?" Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning. "But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds." Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said nothing. "From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure, the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue." Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his | smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--"<|quote|>"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."</|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half | Pride And Prejudice |
"Your health, ma'am!" | Josiah Bounderby | And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, | and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same | readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have | the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. | see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, | by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am | should think it, under existing circumstances, right to do so." The same Hermitical state of mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby to take them; when she said, "Indeed you are very good, sir;" and departed from a resolution of which she had made rather formal and public announcement, to "wait for the simple mutton." She was likewise deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the fullest extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves, occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept; at which periods a tear of large dimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for it insisted on public notice) sliding down her Roman nose. But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last, was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby. There were occasions when in looking at him she was involuntarily moved to shake her head, as who would say, "Alas, poor Yorick!" After allowing herself to be betrayed into these evidences of emotion, she would force a lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful, and would say, "You have still good spirits, sir, I am thankful to find;" and would appear to hail it as a blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he did. One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologized, she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had a curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby "Miss Gradgrind," and yielded to it some three or four score times in the course of the evening. Her repetition of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to say Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuade herself that the young lady whom she had had the happiness of knowing from a child could be really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a further singularity of this remarkable case, that the more she thought about it, the more impossible it appeared; "the differences," she observed, "being such." In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr. Bounderby tried the case of the robbery, examined the witnesses, made notes of the evidence, found the suspected persons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punishment of the law. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to town with instructions to recommend Tom to come home by the mail-train. When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured, "Don't be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir, as I used to do." Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these consolations had begun to produce the effect of making him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental, sighed like some large sea-animal. "I cannot bear to see you so, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit. "Try a hand at backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the honour of living under your roof." "I haven't played backgammon, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby, "since that time." "No, sir," said Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly, "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" "How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I don't know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of a better brother than I am. But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed, go to bed." "You are tired," she whispered presently, more in her usual way. "Yes, I am quite tired out." "You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day. Have any fresh discoveries been made?" "Only those you have heard of, from him." "Tom, have you said to any one that we made a visit to those people, and that we saw those three together?" "No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me to keep it quiet when you asked me to go there with you?" "Yes. But I did not know then what was going to happen." "Nor I neither. How could I?" He was very quick upon her with this retort. "Ought I to say, after what has happened," said his sister, standing by the bed she had gradually withdrawn herself and risen, "that I made that visit? Should I say so? Must I say so?" "Good Heavens, Loo," returned her brother, "you are not in the habit of asking my advice. Say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to _my_self. If you disclose it, there's an end of it." It was too dark for either to see the other's face; but each seemed very attentive, and to consider before speaking. "Tom, do you believe the man | "I am aware that you have not. I remember that Miss Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir, if you will condescend." They played near a window, opening on the garden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into the garden, where their voices could be heard in the stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place at the backgammon board, was constantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows without. "What's the matter, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby; "you don't see a Fire, do you?" "Oh dear no, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I was thinking of the dew." "What have you got to do with the dew, ma'am?" said Mr. Bounderby. "It's not myself, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit, "I am fearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold." "She never takes cold," said Mr. Bounderby. "Really, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a cough in her throat. When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby took a glass of water. "Oh, sir?" said Mrs. Sparsit. "Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nutmeg?" "Why, I have got out of the habit of taking it now, ma'am," said Mr. Bounderby. "The more's the pity, sir," returned Mrs. Sparsit; "you are losing all your good old habits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as I have often done." Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby. "It will do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir." And when Mr. Bounderby said,<|quote|>"Your health, ma'am!"</|quote|>she answered with great feeling, "Thank you, sir. The same to you, and happiness also." Finally, she wished him good night, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that he had been crossed in something tender, though he could not, for his life, have mentioned what it was. Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she watched and waited for her brother's coming home. That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past midnight; but in the country silence, which did anything but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased, and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and wider in the air, and all was dead again. She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her brother's room. His door being shut, she softly opened it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a noiseless step. She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his neck, and drew his face to hers. She knew that he only feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to him. He started by and by as if he were just then awakened, and asked who that was, and what was the matter? "Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you loved me in your life, and have anything concealed from every one besides, tell it to me." "I don't know what you mean, Loo. You have been dreaming." "My dear brother:" she laid her head down on his pillow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would hide him from every one but herself: "is there nothing that you have to tell me? Is there nothing you can tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will change me. O Tom, tell me the truth!" "I don't know what you mean, Loo!" "As you lie here alone, my dear, in the melancholy night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when even I, if I am living then, shall have left you. As I am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the night of my decay, until I am dust. In the name of that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!" "What is it you want to know?" "You may be certain;" in the energy of her love she took him to her bosom as if he were a child; "that I will not reproach you. You may be certain that I will be compassionate and true to you. You may be certain that I will save you at whatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly. Say only" "yes," "and I shall understand you!" She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained doggedly silent. "Not a word, Tom?" | Hard Times |
"Hold your tongue, fool," | Mrs. Corney | I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, | O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the | merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my | identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks without raising his eyes. "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; "suppress your feelings." "I will | I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!" As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks without raising his eyes. "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; "suppress your feelings." "I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well." This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks, "Do you know that person?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble flatly. "Perhaps _you_ don't?" said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse. "I never saw him in all my life," said Mr. Bumble. "Nor sold him anything, perhaps?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble. "You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow. "Certainly not," replied | for two years he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France." "There she died," said Monks, "after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!" As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks without raising his eyes. "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; "suppress your feelings." "I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well." This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks, "Do you know that person?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble flatly. "Perhaps _you_ don't?" said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse. "I never saw him in all my life," said Mr. Bumble. "Nor sold him anything, perhaps?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble. "You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow. "Certainly not," replied the matron. "Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?" Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked. "You shut the door the night old Sally died," said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, "but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks." "No, no," said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. "No, no, no." "We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's shop," said the first. "Yes," added the second, "and it was a locket and gold ring.' We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by." "And we know more than that," resumed the first, "for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the | upon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his conviction only strengthened by approaching death that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you: for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed him with coldness and aversion." "My mother," said Monks, in a louder tone, "did what a woman should have done. She burnt this will. The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot. The girl's father had the truth from her with every aggravation that her violent hate I love her for it now could add. Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke." There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative. "Years after this," he said, "this man's Edward Leeford's mother came to me. He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London: where for two years he had associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France." "There she died," said Monks, "after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!" As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks without raising his eyes. "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; "suppress your feelings." "I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well." This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks, "Do you know that person?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble flatly. "Perhaps _you_ don't?" said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse. "I never saw him in all my life," said Mr. Bumble. "Nor sold him anything, perhaps?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble. "You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow. "Certainly not," replied the matron. "Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?" Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked. "You shut the door the night old Sally died," said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, "but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks." "No, no," said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. "No, no, no." "We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's shop," said the first. "Yes," added the second, "and it was a locket and gold ring.' We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by." "And we know more than that," resumed the first, "for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child." "Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?" asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door. "No," replied the woman; "if he" she pointed to Monks "has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I _did_ sell them, and 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 | long before. She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!" As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared: of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued: and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him. "The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. "I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks without raising his eyes. "You know what became of them." Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him. "Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, "or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you"<|quote|>"Hold your tongue, fool,"</|quote|>murmured Mrs. Bumble. "Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. "Can't I be supposed to feel _I_ as brought him up porochially when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my my my own grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. "Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver." "Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; "suppress your feelings." "I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well." This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks, "Do you know that person?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble flatly. "Perhaps _you_ don't?" said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse. "I never saw him in all my life," said Mr. Bumble. "Nor sold him anything, perhaps?" "No," replied Mrs. Bumble. "You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow. "Certainly not," replied the matron. "Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?" Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered as they walked. "You shut the door the night old Sally died," said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, "but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks." "No, no," said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws. "No, no, no." "We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's shop," said the first. "Yes," added the second, "and it was a locket and gold ring.' We found out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by." "And we know more than that," resumed the first, "for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child." "Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?" asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door. "No," replied the woman; "if he" she pointed to Monks "has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I _did_ sell them, and they're where you'll | Oliver Twist |
"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day." | Mr. Blathers | the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, | up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to | here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, | "The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. "The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning." "What?" cried the doctor. "Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?" Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the | nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. "I ask you again," thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?" Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. "It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. "The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. "The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning." "What?" cried the doctor. "Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?" Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were. The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose. "Tell your governor that | shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. "Something may come of this before long." The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner. "It's a simple question of identity, you will observe," said the doctor. "That's what it is, sir," replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. "Here's the house broken into," said the doctor, "and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him by doing which, they place his life in great danger and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?" The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. "I ask you again," thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?" Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. "It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. "The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. "The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning." "What?" cried the doctor. "Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?" Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were. The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose. "Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?" said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. "Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?" This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door. "This is the lady of the house," said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it one of the two seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment. "Now, with regard to this here robbery, master," said Blathers. "What are the circumstances?" Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged | The latter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a proportionate allowance of ale as indeed he had. The adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating everything, before his superior said it. "Sit still!" said the doctor, waving his hand. "Thank you, sir," said Mr. Giles. "Misses wished some ale to be given out, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was disposed for company, I am taking mine among 'em here." Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles's condescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to say that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them. "How is the patient to-night, sir?" asked Giles. "So-so"; returned the doctor. "I am afraid you have got yourself into a scrape there, Mr. Giles." "I hope you don't mean to say, sir," said Mr. Giles, trembling, "that he's going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't cut a boy off: no, not even Brittles here; not for all the plate in the county, sir." "That's not the point," said the doctor, mysteriously. "Mr. Giles, are you a Protestant?" "Yes, sir, I hope so," faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale. "And what are _you_, boy?" said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles. "Lord bless me, sir!" replied Brittles, starting violently; "I'm the same as Mr. Giles, sir." "Then tell me this," said the doctor, "both of you, both of you! Are you going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We are prepared for you!" The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction. "Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?" said the doctor, shaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost acuteness. "Something may come of this before long." The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner. "It's a simple question of identity, you will observe," said the doctor. "That's what it is, sir," replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. "Here's the house broken into," said the doctor, "and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him by doing which, they place his life in great danger and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?" The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. "I ask you again," thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?" Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. "It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. "The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. "The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning." "What?" cried the doctor. "Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?" Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were. The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose. "Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?" said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. "Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?" This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door. "This is the lady of the house," said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it one of the two seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment. "Now, with regard to this here robbery, master," said Blathers. "What are the circumstances?" Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod. "I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course," said Blathers; "but my opinion at once is, I don't mind committing myself to that extent, that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?" "Certainly not," replied Duff. "And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?" said Mr. Losberne, with a smile. "That's it, master," replied Blathers. "This is all about the robbery, is it?" "All," replied the doctor. "Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?" said Blathers. "Nothing at all," replied the doctor. "One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity." "Wery easy disposed of, if it is," remarked Duff. "What he says is quite correct," observed Blathers, nodding his head in a confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they were a pair of castanets. "Who is the boy? What account does he give of himself? Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, master?" "Of course not," replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two ladies. "I know his whole history: but we can talk about that presently. You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their attempt, I suppose?" "Certainly," rejoined Mr. Blathers. "We had better inspect the premises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing business." Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed some six times over: contradicting | which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner. "It's a simple question of identity, you will observe," said the doctor. "That's what it is, sir," replied the constable, coughing with great violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone the wrong way. "Here's the house broken into," said the doctor, "and a couple of men catch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him by doing which, they place his life in great danger and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they place themselves?" The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be glad to know what was. "I ask you again," thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?" Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, the sound of wheels. "It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved. "The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn. "The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning." "What?" cried the doctor. "Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only wonder they weren't here before, sir." "You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," said the doctor, walking away. CHAPTER XXXI. INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION "Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.<|quote|>"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, as was sent to to-day."</|quote|>Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full width, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in, without saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he lived there. "Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?" Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his companion to put up the gig: while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. This done, they returned to the house, and, being shown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed like what they were. The man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle height, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured countenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose. "Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?" said the stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the table. "Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in private, if you please?" This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and shut the door. "This is the lady of the house," said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie. Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same. The latter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or quite so much at his ease in it one of the two seated himself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and the head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment. "Now, with regard to this here robbery, master," said Blathers. "What are the circumstances?" Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod. "I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course," said Blathers; "but my opinion at once is, I don't mind committing myself to that extent, that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?" "Certainly not," replied Duff. "And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?" said Mr. Losberne, with a smile. "That's it, master," replied Blathers. "This is all about the robbery, is it?" "All," replied the doctor. "Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking on?" said Blathers. "Nothing at all," replied the doctor. "One of the frightened servants chose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity." "Wery easy disposed of, if it is," remarked Duff. "What he says is quite correct," observed Blathers, nodding his head | Oliver Twist |
"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion." | Elizabeth | disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no | be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice | misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not | by her, and must fret no longer." "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?" "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper | him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer." "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?" "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she | Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you." Jane shook her head. "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer." "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?" "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER XXII. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here, she did | your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of whom we shall deprive you." "It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this winter." "It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_." "Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master. But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?" "What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?"--said Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?" "Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?" "Most willingly." "You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you." Jane shook her head. "Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer." "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?" "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER XXII. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there. In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained. Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes | when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend." "If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived herself." "That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer." "But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?" "You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him." "How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."<|quote|>"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."</|quote|>"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!" The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of every one. She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart. They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses. CHAPTER XXII. The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her | Pride And Prejudice |
"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?" | Mrs. Honeychurch | the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! | it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish | that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he | place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him | wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was | said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been | late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon." Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her hand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has not told. He will not tell." She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded. Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said: "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously." "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes. "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January | opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!" "Eh--?" "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that to poor Freddy." George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well. "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first."<|quote|>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday--?"</|quote|>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday--" "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased." He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days. She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans." "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection. Miss Bartlett approached. "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly. "You met her with my daughter in Florence." "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the old, old battle of the room with the view. George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, | A Room With A View |
"Yes, and the windows." | Toby Crackit | sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate | are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash | an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set | huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent. "Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe," cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice | the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail. "Help!" shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. "He's here! Break down the door!" "In the King's name," cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder. "Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!" Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent. "Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe," cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, "Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!" The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the | Murder! Help! Down with him!" Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps endless they seemed in number crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail. "Help!" shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. "He's here! Break down the door!" "In the King's name," cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder. "Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!" Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent. "Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe," cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, "Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!" The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar. "The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, "the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself." The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top. All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon | true, or a lie?" "True." They were silent again. "Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you nothing to say to me?" There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke. "You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?" "You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, after some hesitation. Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him: rather trying to turn his head than actually doing it: and said, "Is it the body is it buried?" They shook their heads. "Why isn't it!" he retorted with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they keep such ugly things above the ground for? Who's that knocking?" Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he encountered his figure. "Toby," said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, "why didn't you tell me this, downstairs?" There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him. "Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still farther. "Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward. "Don't you don't you know me?" "Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You monster!" The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes sunk gradually to the ground. "Witness you three," cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three I'm not afraid of him if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!" Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps endless they seemed in number crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail. "Help!" shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. "He's here! Break down the door!" "In the King's name," cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder. "Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!" Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent. "Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe," cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, "Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!" The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar. "The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and shut the faces out, "the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill myself." The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to the house-top. All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the back; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream. He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty to open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low parapet. The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud. The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its population out to curse him. On pressed the people from the front on, on, on, in a strong struggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch. "They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge. "Hurrah!" The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose. "I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, "to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he come to ask me for it." There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell | this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him. "Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still farther. "Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward. "Don't you don't you know me?" "Don't come nearer me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You monster!" The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes sunk gradually to the ground. "Witness you three," cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and becoming more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three I'm not afraid of him if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!" Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him heavily to the ground. The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for help with all his might. The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps endless they seemed in number crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail. "Help!" shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air. "He's here! Break down the door!" "In the King's name," cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose again, but louder. "Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never open it. Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!" Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent. "Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching Hell-babe," cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?" "Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, still remained quite helpless and bewildered. "The panels are they strong?" "Lined with sheet-iron." "And the windows too?"<|quote|>"Yes, and the windows."</|quote|>"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!" Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above all others, "Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!" The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar. "The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and | Oliver Twist |
"To whom do I apply for an order?" | Cyril Fielding | his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" | McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well | magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde | you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." | I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; | was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided | edifying. Here is a letter from a friend who apparently keeps a brothel." "I don't want to hear his private letters." "It'll have to be quoted in Court, as bearing on his morals. He was fixing up to see women at Calcutta." "Oh, that'll do, that'll do." McBryde stopped, naively puzzled. It was obvious to him that any two sahibs ought to pool all they knew about any Indian, and he could not think where the objection came in. "I dare say you have the right to throw stones at a young man for doing that, but I haven't. I did the same at his age." So had the Superintendent of Police, but he considered that the conversation had taken a turn that was undesirable. He did not like Fielding's next remark either. "Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know that for a certainty?" "You have never explained to me what's in your mind here. Why on earth do you want to see her?" "On the off chance of her recanting before you send in that report and he's committed for trial, and the whole thing goes to blazes. Old man, don't argue about this, but do of your goodness just ring up your wife or Miss Derek and enquire. It'll cost you nothing." "It's no use ringing up them," he replied, stretching out for the telephone. "Callendar settles a question like that, of course. You haven't grasped that she's seriously ill." "He's sure to refuse, it's all he exists for," said the other desperately. The expected answer came back: the Major would not hear of the patient being troubled. "I only wanted to ask her whether she is certain, dead certain, that it was Aziz who followed her into the cave." "Possibly my wife might ask her that much." "But _I_ wanted to ask her. I want someone who believes in him to ask her." "What difference does that make?" "She is among people who disbelieve in Indians." "Well, she tells her own story, doesn't she?" "I know, but she tells it to you." McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: "A bit too finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won't hear of you seeing her. I'm sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means out of danger." They were silent. Another card was brought into the office Hamidullah's. The opposite army was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always do something disappointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And now Hamidullah! instead of raging and denouncing, he temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitiation. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugnacious and sensible. McBryde's remark, "If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line," was being illustrated. "First and foremost, the question of bail . . ." Application must be made this afternoon. Fielding wanted to stand surety. Hamidullah thought the Nawab Bahadur should be approached. "Why drag in him, though?" To drag in everyone was precisely the barrister's aim. He then suggested that the lawyer in charge of the case would be a Hindu; the defence would then make a wider appeal. He mentioned one or two names men from a distance who would not be intimidated by local conditions and said he should prefer Amritrao, a Calcutta barrister, who had a high reputation professionally and personally, but who was notoriously anti-British. Fielding demurred; this seemed to him going to the other extreme. Aziz must be cleared, but with a minimum of racial hatred. Amritrao was loathed at the club. His retention would be regarded as a political challenge. "Oh no, we must hit with all our strength. When I saw my friend's private papers carried in just now in the arms of a dirty policeman, I said to myself, Amritrao is the man to clear up this.'" There was a lugubrious pause. The temple bell continued to jangle harshly. The interminable and disastrous day had scarcely reached its afternoon. Continuing their work, the wheels of Dominion now propelled a messenger on a horse from the Superintendent to the Magistrate with an official report of arrest. "Don't complicate, let the cards play themselves," entreated Fielding, as he watched the man disappear into dust. "We're bound to win, there's nothing else we can do. She will never be able to substantiate the charge." This comforted Hamidullah, who remarked with complete sincerity, "At a crisis, the English are really unequalled." "Good-bye, then, my dear Hamidullah (we must drop the Mr.' now). Give Aziz my | must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said,<|quote|>"To whom do I apply for an order?"</|quote|>"City Magistrate." "That sounds comfortable!" "Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always do something disappointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And now Hamidullah! instead of raging and denouncing, he temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitiation. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugnacious and sensible. McBryde's remark, "If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line," was being illustrated. "First and foremost, the question of bail . . ." Application must be made this afternoon. Fielding wanted to stand surety. Hamidullah thought the Nawab Bahadur should be approached. "Why drag in him, though?" To drag in everyone was precisely the barrister's aim. He then suggested that the lawyer in | A Passage To India |
"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up." | Young Thomas | my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, | with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as | setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, | do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be | be a Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. "It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." That'll bring him about, | one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. "It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." That'll bring him about, or nothing will." After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, | diver ever got to any depth in and came up sane. It was a disheartening circumstance, but a melancholy fact, that even these readers persisted in wondering. They wondered about human nature, human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows, the lives and deaths of common men and women! They sometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat down to read mere fables about men and women, more or less like themselves, and about children, more or less like their own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccentric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded this unaccountable product. "I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether, and I hate everybody except you," said the unnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber at twilight. "You don't hate Sissy, Tom?" "I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And she hates me," said Tom, moodily. "No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!" "She must," said Tom. "She must just hate and detest the whole set-out of us. They'll bother her head off, I think, before they have done with her. Already she's getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as I am." Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the back, and his sulky face on his arms. His sister sat in the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him, now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon the hearth. "As to me," said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, "I am a Donkey, that's what _I_ am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one." "Not me, I hope, Tom?" "No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt _you_. I made an exception of you at first. I don't know what this jolly old Jaundiced Jail," Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, "would be without you." "Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. "It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." That'll bring him about, or nothing will." After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about you and me, grown up." "Wondering again!" said Tom. "I have such unmanageable thoughts," returned his sister, "that they _will_ wonder." "Then I beg of you, Louisa," said Mrs. Gradgrind, who had opened the door without being heard, "to do nothing of that description, for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from your father. And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy brought up as you have been, and whose education has cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his sister to wonder, when he knows his father has expressly said that she is not to do it." Louisa denied Tom's participation in the offence; but her mother stopped her with the conclusive answer, "Louisa, don't tell me, in my state of health; for unless you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically impossible that you could have done it." "I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by looking at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and whitening and dying. It made me think, after all, how short my life would be, and how little I could hope to do in it." "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost energetic. "Nonsense! Don't stand there and tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, when you know very well that if it was ever to reach your father's ears I should never hear the last of it. After all the trouble that has been taken with you! After the lectures you have attended, and the experiments you have seen! | truly say so?" "Why, of course I do. What's the use of talking about it!" returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit. "Because, Tom," said his sister, after silently watching the sparks awhile, "as I get older, and nearer growing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how unfortunate it is for me that I can't reconcile you to home better than I am able to do. I don't know what other girls know. I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to you so as to lighten your mind, for I never see any amusing sights or read any amusing books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to talk about, when you are tired." "Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in that respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If father was determined to make me either a Prig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, it stands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so I am," said Tom, desperately. "It's a great pity," said Louisa, after another pause, and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner: "it's a great pity, Tom. It's very unfortunate for both of us." "Oh! You," said Tom; "you are a girl, Loo, and a girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don't miss anything in you. You are the only pleasure I have you can brighten even this place and you can always lead me as you like." "You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I can do such things, I don't so much mind knowing better. Though I do know better, Tom, and am very sorry for it." She came and kissed him, and went back into her corner again. "I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much about," said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, "and all the Figures, and all the people who found them out: and I wish I could put a thousand barrels of gunpowder under them, and blow them all up together! However, when I go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have my revenge." "Your revenge, Tom?"<|quote|>"I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and see something, and hear something. I'll recompense myself for the way in which I have been brought up."</|quote|>"But don't disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal rougher, and not half so kind." "Oh!" said Tom, laughing; "I don't mind that. I shall very well know how to manage and smooth old Bounderby!" Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those of the high presses in the room were all blended together on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fanciful imagination if such treason could have been there might have made it out to be the shadow of their subject, and of its lowering association with their future. "What is your great mode of smoothing and managing, Tom? Is it a secret?" "Oh!" said Tom, "if it is a secret, it's not far off. It's you. You are his little pet, you are his favourite; he'll do anything for you. When he says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him, "My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed, Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell me she was sure you would be easier with me than this." That'll bring him about, or nothing will." After waiting for some answering remark, and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time, and twined himself yawning round and about the rails of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until he suddenly looked up, and asked: "Have you gone to sleep, Loo?" "No, Tom. I am looking at the fire." "You seem to find more to look at in it than ever I could find," said Tom. "Another of the advantages, I suppose, of being a girl." "Tom," enquired his sister, slowly, and in a curious tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly written there, "do you look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?" "Why, there's one thing to be said of it," returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; "it will be getting away from home." "There is one thing to be said of it," Louisa repeated in her former curious tone; "it will be getting away from home. Yes." "Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But I must go, you know, whether I like it or not; and I had better go where I can take with me some advantage of your influence, than where I should lose it altogether. Don't you see?" "Yes, Tom." The answer was so long in coming, though there was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he could make of it. "Except that it is a fire," said Tom, "it looks to me as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?" "I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly. But since I have been looking at it, I have been wondering about | Hard Times |
"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like." | The Policeman | with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. | I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, | and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of | of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in | these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase. "I really | you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt. What is this anarchy?" "Do not confuse it," replied the constable, "with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring the main mass of their supporters are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section." "Oh!" said Syme. "Naturally, therefore, these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase. "I really have no experience," he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his | they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people's." Syme struck his hands together. "How true that is," he cried. "I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed say a wealthy uncle he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else." "But this is absurd!" cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon in persons of his figure and costume, "but it is intolerable! I don't know what you're doing, but you're wasting your life. You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy. Their armies are on our frontiers. Their bolt is ready to fall. A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world." "It is a chance not to be missed, certainly," assented Syme, "but still I do not quite understand. I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements. But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other. How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt. What is this anarchy?" "Do not confuse it," replied the constable, "with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring the main mass of their supporters are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section." "Oh!" said Syme. "Naturally, therefore, these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase. "I really have no experience," he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists. When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight. Over the whole landscape lay a luminous and unnatural discoloration, as of that disastrous twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric folly glowed in the night like a great fire. Even the common things he carried with him the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be | the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring the main mass of their supporters are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section." "Oh!" said Syme. "Naturally, therefore, these people talk about a happy time coming'; the paradise of the future'; mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,' and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths" and the policeman lowered his voice "in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave." "They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody." "How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.<|quote|>"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like."</|quote|>"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest. "No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along." Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind. "Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice. And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him. "Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged." Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase. "I really have no experience," he began. "No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of Armageddon." "But I am really unfit" "You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown. "Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test." "I do," said the other "martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day." Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, "The Last Crusade," and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists. When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"That sounds comfortable!" | Cyril Fielding | for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well | "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" | justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, | pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had | don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces | "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always | keeps a brothel." "I don't want to hear his private letters." "It'll have to be quoted in Court, as bearing on his morals. He was fixing up to see women at Calcutta." "Oh, that'll do, that'll do." McBryde stopped, naively puzzled. It was obvious to him that any two sahibs ought to pool all they knew about any Indian, and he could not think where the objection came in. "I dare say you have the right to throw stones at a young man for doing that, but I haven't. I did the same at his age." So had the Superintendent of Police, but he considered that the conversation had taken a turn that was undesirable. He did not like Fielding's next remark either. "Miss Quested really cannot be seen? You do know that for a certainty?" "You have never explained to me what's in your mind here. Why on earth do you want to see her?" "On the off chance of her recanting before you send in that report and he's committed for trial, and the whole thing goes to blazes. Old man, don't argue about this, but do of your goodness just ring up your wife or Miss Derek and enquire. It'll cost you nothing." "It's no use ringing up them," he replied, stretching out for the telephone. "Callendar settles a question like that, of course. You haven't grasped that she's seriously ill." "He's sure to refuse, it's all he exists for," said the other desperately. The expected answer came back: the Major would not hear of the patient being troubled. "I only wanted to ask her whether she is certain, dead certain, that it was Aziz who followed her into the cave." "Possibly my wife might ask her that much." "But _I_ wanted to ask her. I want someone who believes in him to ask her." "What difference does that make?" "She is among people who disbelieve in Indians." "Well, she tells her own story, doesn't she?" "I know, but she tells it to you." McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: "A bit too finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won't hear of you seeing her. I'm sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means out of danger." They were silent. Another card was brought into the office Hamidullah's. The opposite army was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he relegated them to the edge of his mind, and forbade them to infect its core. Aziz _was_ innocent, and all action must be based on that, and the people who said he was guilty were wrong, and it was hopeless to try to propitiate them. At the moment when he was throwing in his lot with Indians, he realized the profundity of the gulf that divided him from them. They always do something disappointing. Aziz had tried to run away from the police, Mohammed Latif had not checked the pilfering. And now Hamidullah! instead of raging and denouncing, he temporized. Are Indians cowards? No, but they are bad starters and occasionally jib. Fear is everywhere; the British Raj rests on it; the respect and courtesy Fielding himself enjoyed were unconscious acts of propitiation. He told Hamidullah to cheer up, all would end well; and Hamidullah did cheer up, and became pugnacious and sensible. McBryde's remark, "If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line," was being illustrated. "First and foremost, the question of bail . . ." Application must be made this afternoon. Fielding wanted to stand surety. Hamidullah thought the Nawab Bahadur should be approached. "Why drag in him, though?" To drag in everyone was precisely the barrister's aim. He then suggested that the lawyer in charge of the case would be a Hindu; the defence would then make a wider appeal. He mentioned one or two names men from a distance who would not be intimidated by local conditions and said he should prefer Amritrao, a Calcutta barrister, who had a high reputation professionally and personally, but who was notoriously anti-British. Fielding demurred; this seemed to him going to the other extreme. Aziz must be cleared, but with a minimum of racial hatred. Amritrao was loathed at the club. His retention would be regarded as a political challenge. "Oh no, we must hit with all our strength. When I saw my friend's private papers carried in just now in the arms of a dirty policeman, I said to myself, Amritrao is the man to clear up this.'" There was a lugubrious pause. The temple bell continued to jangle harshly. The interminable and disastrous day had scarcely reached its afternoon. Continuing their work, the wheels of Dominion now propelled a messenger on a horse from the Superintendent to the Magistrate with an official report of arrest. "Don't complicate, let the cards play themselves," entreated Fielding, as he watched the man disappear into dust. "We're bound to win, there's nothing else we can do. She will never be able to substantiate the charge." This comforted Hamidullah, who remarked with complete sincerity, "At a crisis, the English are really unequalled." "Good-bye, then, my dear Hamidullah (we must drop the Mr.' now). Give Aziz my love when you see him, | story, doesn't she?" "I know, but she tells it to you." McBryde raised his eyebrows, murmuring: "A bit too finespun. Anyhow, Callendar won't hear of you seeing her. I'm sorry to say he gave a bad account just now. He says that she is by no means out of danger." They were silent. Another card was brought into the office Hamidullah's. The opposite army was gathering. "I must put this report through now, Fielding." "I wish you wouldn't." "How can I not?" "I feel that things are rather unsatisfactory as well as most disastrous. We are heading for a most awful smash. I can see your prisoner, I suppose." He hesitated. "His own people seem in touch with him all right." "Well, when he's done with them." "I wouldn't keep you waiting; good heavens, you take precedence of any Indian visitor, of course. I meant what's the good. Why mix yourself up with pitch?" "I say he's innocent" "Innocence or guilt, why mix yourself up? What's the good?" "Oh, good, good," he cried, feeling that every earth was being stopped. "One's got to breathe occasionally, at least I have. I mayn't see her, and now I mayn't see him. I promised him to come up here with him to you, but Turton called me off before I could get two steps." "Sort of all-white thing the Burra Sahib would do," he muttered sentimentally. And trying not to sound patronizing, he stretched his hand over the table, and said: "We shall all have to hang together, old man, I'm afraid. I'm your junior in years, I know, but very much your senior in service; you don't happen to know this poisonous country as well as I do, and you must take it from me that the general situation is going to be nasty at Chandrapore during the next few weeks, very nasty indeed." "So I have just told you." "But at a time like this there's no room for well personal views. The man who doesn't toe the line is lost." "I see what you mean." "No, you don't see entirely. He not only loses himself, he weakens his friends. If you leave the line, you leave a gap in the line. These jackals" he pointed at the lawyers' cards "are looking with all their eyes for a gap." "Can I visit Aziz?" was his answer. "No." Now that he knew of Turton's attitude, the policeman had no doubts. "You may see him on a magistrate's order, but on my own responsibility I don't feel justified. It might lead to more complications." He paused, reflecting that if he had been either ten years younger or ten years longer in India, he would have responded to McBryde's appeal. The bit between his teeth, he then said, "To whom do I apply for an order?" "City Magistrate."<|quote|>"That sounds comfortable!"</|quote|>"Yes, one can't very well worry poor Heaslop." More "evidence" appeared at this moment the table-drawer from Aziz' bungalow, borne with triumph in a corporal's arms. "Photographs of women. Ah!" "That's his wife," said Fielding, wincing. "How do you know that?" "He told me." McBryde gave a faint, incredulous smile, and started rummaging in the drawer. His face became inquisitive and slightly bestial. "Wife indeed, I know those wives!" he was thinking. Aloud he said: "Well, you must trot off now, old man, and the Lord help us, the Lord help us all. . ." As if his prayer had been heard, there was a sudden rackety-dacket on a temple bell. CHAPTER XIX Hamidullah was the next stage. He was waiting outside the Superintendent's office, and sprang up respectfully when he saw Fielding. To the Englishman's passionate "It's all a mistake," he answered, "Ah, ah, has some evidence come?" "It will come," said Fielding, holding his hand. "Ah, yes, Mr. Fielding; but when once an Indian has been arrested, we do not know where it will stop." His manner was deferential. "You are very good to greet me in this public fashion, I appreciate it; but, Mr. Fielding, nothing convinces a magistrate except evidence. Did Mr. McBryde make any remark when my card came in? Do you think my application annoyed him, will prejudice him against my friend at all? If so, I will gladly retire." "He's not annoyed, and if he was, what does it matter?" "Ah, it's all very well for you to speak like that, but we have to live in this country." The leading barrister of Chandrapore, with the dignified manner and Cambridge degree, had been rattled. He too loved Aziz, and knew he was calumniated; but faith did not rule his heart, and he prated of "policy" and "evidence" in a way that saddened the Englishman. Fielding, too, had his anxieties he didn't like the field-glasses or the discrepancy over the guide but he | A Passage To India |
"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_" | Hercule Poirot | He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it | No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it | strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, | I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the | the murder." "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one. "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. "No, can you?" "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago and it has turned out to be correct." "You never told me," I said reproachfully. Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me you see now that he must not be arrested?" "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable | that? By throwing it on someone else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?" "It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?" "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder." "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one. "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. "No, can you?" "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago and it has turned out to be correct." "You never told me," I said reproachfully. Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me you see now that he must not be arrested?" "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling | the village chemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped up story about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employ the poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrel with her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturally directs their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence no shadow of an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily come forward with the facts. Bah! Do not ask me to believe that any man could be so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causing himself to be hanged, would act so!" "Still I do not see" I began. "Neither do I see. I tell you, _mon ami_, it puzzles me. _Me_ Hercule Poirot!" "But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying the strychnine?" "Very simply. He did _not_ buy it." "But Mace recognized him!" "I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard like Mr. Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed in Mr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a man whom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, he himself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster." "Then you think" "_Mon ami_, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave the first one for the moment, what was the second?" "The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses," I quoted. "Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John or Lawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?" "No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor" But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly. "And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: Because they are both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of these two in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certain initial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his eyes those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on someone else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?" "It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?" "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder." "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one. "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. "No, can you?" "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago and it has turned out to be correct." "You never told me," I said reproachfully. Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me you see now that he must not be arrested?" "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?" "Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !" His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_." "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall." "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly." "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!" I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles. I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done. Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good. | all that is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his eyes those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on someone else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?" "It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?" "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder." "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one. "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. "No, can you?" "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago and it has turned out to be correct." "You never told me," I said reproachfully. Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me you see now that he must not be arrested?" "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm. Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" "Oh, pretty much what I expected." "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: "In what way?" "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" I was relieved. "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."<|quote|>"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange _hein?_"</|quote|>"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree." "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd." Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_" "It's very confusing," I agreed. "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?" "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively. "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that" private conversation' "than she was willing to admit." "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!" "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point. "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact." "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically. "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?" "Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both !" His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed." "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest almost uncomfortably so." Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day." | Miss Bingley | shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear | made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but | rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, | him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in | volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what | at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is | the eye-lashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied." At that moment they were met from another walk, by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself. "I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard. "You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "in running away without telling us that you were coming out." Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness and immediately said,-- "This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue." But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered, "No, no; stay where you are.--You are charmingly group'd, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good bye." She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening. CHAPTER XI. When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room; where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit. But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object. Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned towards Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself directly to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fire-place, that she might be farther from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to any one else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight. When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him, will be to ask nothing about it." Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in any thing, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking;--if the first, I should be completely in your way;--and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire." "Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?" "Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Teaze him--laugh at him.--Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done." "But upon my honour I do _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me _that_. Teaze calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no--I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself." "Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to _me_ to have many such acquaintance. I dearly love a laugh." "Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke." "Certainly," replied Elizabeth--"there are such people, but I hope I am not one of _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies _do_ divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.--But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without." "Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule." "Such as vanity and pride." "Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride--where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation." Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. "Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley;--"and pray what is the result?" "I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise." "No"--said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for.--It is I believe too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful.--My good opinion once lost is lost for ever." "_That_ is a failing indeed!"--cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment _is_ a shade in a character. But | the card-table--but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject, seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sophas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet. Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through _his_ book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of any thing than of a book!--When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library." No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest of some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said, "By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield?--I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure." "If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chuses, before it begins--but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough I shall send round my cards."<|quote|>"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day."</|quote|>"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball." Miss Bingley made no answer; and soon afterwards got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well;--but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings she resolved on one effort more; and, turning to Elizabeth, said, "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room.--I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude." Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing, that he could imagine but two motives for their chusing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? she was dying to know what could be his meaning"--and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him? "Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing | Pride And Prejudice |
The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning. | No speaker | red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At | venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed | and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so | with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. | the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where | walking to the Casino, she merely looked at them in an absent-minded sort of way, and said with complete indifference, "Ah!" Then, turning sharply to Potapitch and Martha, who were walking behind us, she rapped out: "Why have _you_ attached yourselves to the party? We are not going to take you with us every time. Go home at once." Then, when the servants had pulled hasty bows and departed, she added to me: "You are all the escort I need." At the Casino the Grandmother seemed to be expected, for no time was lost in procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, | was a visage full of supplication, and as gentle in its expression as that of a smiling, roguish infant. Stealthily, she drew me apart from the rest as though the more completely to separate me from them; and, though no harm came of her doing so for it was merely a stupid manoeuvre, and no more I found the situation very unpleasant. The General hastened to lend her his support. "Alexis Ivanovitch," he began, "pray pardon me for having said what I did just now for having said more than I meant to do. I beg and beseech you, I kiss the hem of your garment, as our Russian saying has it, for you, and only you, can save us. I and Mlle. de Cominges, we all of us beg of you But you understand, do you not? Surely you understand?" and with his eyes he indicated Mlle. Blanche. Truly he was cutting a pitiful figure! At this moment three low, respectful knocks sounded at the door; which, on being opened, revealed a chambermaid, with Potapitch behind her come from the Grandmother to request that I should attend her in her rooms. "She is in a bad humour," added Potapitch. The time was half-past three. "My mistress was unable to sleep," explained Potapitch; "so, after tossing about for a while, she suddenly rose, called for her chair, and sent me to look for you. She is now in the verandah." "Quelle m g re!" exclaimed De Griers. True enough, I found Madame in the hotel verandah much put about at my delay, for she had been unable to contain herself until four o clock. "Lift me up," she cried to the bearers, and once more we set out for the roulette-salons. XII The Grandmother was in an impatient, irritable frame of mind. Without doubt the roulette had turned her head, for she appeared to be indifferent to everything else, and, in general, seemed much distraught. For instance, she asked me no questions about objects _en route_, except that, when a sumptuous barouche passed us and raised a cloud of dust, she lifted her hand for a moment, and inquired, "What was that?" Yet even then she did not appear to hear my reply, although at times her abstraction was interrupted by sallies and fits of sharp, impatient fidgeting. Again, when I pointed out to her the Baron and Baroness Burmergelm walking to the Casino, she merely looked at them in an absent-minded sort of way, and said with complete indifference, "Ah!" Then, turning sharply to Potapitch and Martha, who were walking behind us, she rapped out: "Why have _you_ attached yourselves to the party? We are not going to take you with us every time. Go home at once." Then, when the servants had pulled hasty bows and departed, she added to me: "You are all the escort I need." At the Casino the Grandmother seemed to be expected, for no time was lost in procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, Madame. In this satchel I can see only a few five percent bonds and some transfers no actual cash." "And in the purse?" "A mere trifle." "But there is a money-changer s office here, is there not? They told me I should be able to get any sort of paper security changed!" "Quite so; to any amount you please. But you will lose on the transaction what would frighten even a Jew." "Rubbish! I am _determined_ to retrieve my losses. Take me away, and call those fools of bearers." I wheeled the chair out of the throng, and, the bearers making their appearance, we left the Casino. "Hurry, hurry!" commanded the Grandmother. "Show me the nearest way to the money-changer s. Is it far?" "A couple of steps, Madame." At the turning from the square into the Avenue we came face to face with the whole of our party the General, De Griers, Mlle. Blanche, and her mother. Only Polina and Mr. Astley were absent. "Well, well, well!" exclaimed the Grandmother. "But we have no time to stop. What do you want? I can t talk to you here." I dropped behind a little, and immediately was pounced upon by De Griers. "She has lost this morning s winnings," I whispered, "and also twelve thousand g lden of her original money. At the present moment we are going to get some bonds changed." De Griers stamped his foot with vexation, and hastened to communicate the tidings to the General. Meanwhile we continued to wheel the old lady along. "Stop her, stop her," whispered the General in consternation. "You had better try and stop her yourself," I returned also in a whisper. "My good mother," he said as he approached her, " my good mother, pray let, let " (his voice was beginning to tremble and sink) " let us hire a carriage, and go for a drive. Near here there is an enchanting view to be obtained. We-we-we were just coming to invite you to go and see it." "Begone with you and your views!" said the | procuring her former place beside the croupier. It is my opinion that though croupiers seem such ordinary, humdrum officials men who care nothing whether the bank wins or loses they are, in reality, anything but indifferent to the bank s losing, and are given instructions to attract players, and to keep a watch over the bank s interests; as also, that for such services, these officials are awarded prizes and premiums. At all events, the croupiers of Roulettenberg seemed to look upon the Grandmother as their lawful prey whereafter there befell what our party had foretold. It happened thus: As soon as ever we arrived the Grandmother ordered me to stake twelve ten-g lden pieces in succession upon zero. Once, twice, and thrice I did so, yet zero never turned up. "Stake again," said the old lady with an impatient nudge of my elbow, and I obeyed. "How many times have we lost?" she inquired actually grinding her teeth in her excitement. "We have lost 144 ten-g lden pieces," I replied. "I tell you, Madame, that zero may not turn up until nightfall." "Never mind," she interrupted. "Keep on staking upon zero, and also stake a thousand g lden upon rouge. Here is a banknote with which to do so." The red turned up, but zero missed again, and we only got our thousand g lden back. "But you see, you see," whispered the old lady. "We have now recovered almost all that we staked. Try zero again. Let us do so another ten times, and then leave off." By the fifth round, however, the Grandmother was weary of the scheme. "To the devil with that zero!" she exclaimed. "Stake four thousand g lden upon the red." "But, Madame, that will be so much to venture!" I remonstrated. "Suppose the red should not turn up?"<|quote|>The Grandmother almost struck me in her excitement. Her agitation was rapidly making her quarrelsome. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to stake the whole four thousand g lden as she had directed. The wheel revolved while the Grandmother sat as bolt upright, and with as proud and quiet a mien, as though she had not the least doubt of winning.</|quote|>"Zero!" cried the croupier. At first the old lady failed to understand the situation; but, as soon as she saw the croupier raking in her four thousand g lden, together with everything else that happened to be lying on the table, and recognised that the zero which had been so long turning up, and on which we had lost nearly two hundred ten-g lden pieces, had at length, as though of set purpose, made a sudden reappearance why, the poor old lady fell to cursing it, and to throwing herself about, and wailing and gesticulating at the company at large. Indeed, some people in our vicinity actually burst out laughing. "To think that that accursed zero should have turned up _now!_" she sobbed. "The accursed, accursed thing! And, it is all _your_ fault," she added, rounding upon me in a frenzy. "It was _you_ who persuaded me to cease staking upon it." "But, Madame, I only explained the game to you. How am _I_ to answer for every mischance which may occur in it?" "You and your mischances!" she whispered threateningly. "Go! Away at once!" "Farewell, then, Madame." And I turned to depart. "No stay," she put in hastily. "Where are you going to? Why should you leave me? You fool! No, no... stay here. It is _I_ who was the fool. Tell me what I ought to do." "I cannot take it upon myself to advise you, for you will only blame me if I do so. Play at your own discretion. Say exactly what you wish staked, and I will stake it." "Very well. Stake another four thousand g lden upon the red. Take this banknote to do it with. I have still got twenty thousand roubles in actual cash." "But," I whispered, "such a quantity of money" "Never mind. I cannot rest until I have won back my losses. Stake!" I staked, and we lost. "Stake again, stake again eight thousand at a stroke!" "I cannot, Madame. The largest stake allowed is four thousand g lden." "Well, then; stake four thousand." This time we won, and the Grandmother recovered herself a little. "You see, you see!" she exclaimed as she nudged me. "Stake another four thousand." I did so, and lost. Again, and yet again, we lost. "Madame, your twelve thousand g lden are now gone," at length I reported. "I see they are," she replied with, as it were, the calmness of despair. "I see they are," she muttered again as she gazed straight in front of her, like a person lost in thought. "Ah well, I do not mean to rest until I have staked another four thousand." "But you have no money with which to do it, | The Gambler |
"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it." | Hercule Poirot | amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise | top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will | But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet | taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours." Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the | that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing." "We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours." Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. | confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing." "We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours." Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar | determined to get hold of that paper at all costs, and in this resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp's despatch-case, which had been lost that morning. She knew that her mother-in-law invariably kept all important papers in this particular case. "Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as only a woman driven desperate through jealousy could have done. Some time in the evening she unbolted the door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room. Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found that it opened quite noiselessly when I tried it. She put off her project until the early hours of the morning as being safer, since the servants were accustomed to hearing her move about her room at that time. She dressed completely in her land kit, and made her way quietly through Mademoiselle Cynthia's room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp." He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted: "But I should have woken up if anyone had come through my room?" "Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle." "Drugged?" "_Mais, oui!_" "You remember" he addressed us collectively again "that through all the tumult and noise next door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of two possibilities. Either her sleep was feigned which I did not believe or her unconsciousness was indeed by artificial means." "With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all the coffee-cups most carefully, remembering that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought Mademoiselle Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample from each cup, and had them analysed with no result. I had counted the cups carefully, in the event of one having been removed. Six persons had taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself mistaken." "Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as usual or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room." "I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some salt' on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and sent it to be analysed." "But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing." "We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours." Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o'clock that evening. What third medium was there a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?" Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. "Her medicine!" "Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?" I cried. "There was no need to introduce it. It was already there in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:" "The following prescription has become famous in text books:" Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr. Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat Mistura _This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!_ "Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed." "Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last and fatal dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof the last link of the chain is now in my hands." Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper. "A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it." In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read: Dearest Evelyn: You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There's a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step ' "Here, my friends, | Dr. Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly. ""Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a narcotic." "For a narcotic?" "Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d'heure_ in consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her door. She is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her doing." "We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours." Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her face. "All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now" "What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me." "I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The drugged cocoa, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay."<|quote|>"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it."</|quote|>"What?" The cry of surprise was universal. "No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick." "What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must | The Mysterious Affair At Styles |
"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?" | Mr. Darcy | now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a | accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such | but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when | woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who | a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. | drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. CHAPTER IX. Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, | them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these." "Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley." "I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister. CHAPTER IX. Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast. Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected. "Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness." "Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal." "You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us." Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments. "I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I hope, though you have but a short lease." "Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here." "That is exactly what | that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley." "I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."<|quote|>"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?"</|quote|>"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper | Pride And Prejudice |
"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out." | Bill Gorton | "How'd you like the bulls?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"To-morrow come the Miuras." "When | business to talk like Mike." "How'd you like the bulls?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day | 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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"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 | 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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. CHAPTER 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked together. I heard them | you blame them?" "Go to hell, Mike." "I can't blame them. Can you blame them? Why do you follow Brett around? Haven't you any manners? How do you think it makes _me_ feel?" "You're a splendid one to talk about manners," Brett said. "You've such lovely manners." "Come on, Robert," Bill said. "What do you follow her around for?" Bill stood up and took hold of Cohn. "Don't go," Mike said. "Robert Cohn's going to buy a drink." Bill went off with Cohn. Cohn's face was sallow. Mike went on talking. I sat and listened for a while. Brett looked disgusted. "I say, Michael, you might not be such a bloody ass," she interrupted. "I'm not saying he's not right, you know." She turned to me. The emotion left Mike's voice. We were all friends together. "I'm not so damn drunk as I sounded," he said. "I know you're not," Brett said. "We're none of us sober," I said. "I didn't say anything I didn't mean." "But you put it so badly," Brett laughed. "He was an ass, though. He came down to San Sebastian where he damn well wasn't wanted. He hung around Brett and just _looked_ at her. It made me damned well sick." "He did behave very badly," Brett said. "Mark you. Brett's had affairs with men before. She tells me all about everything. She gave me this chap Cohn's letters to read. I wouldn't read them." "Damned noble of you." "No, listen, Jake. Brett's gone off with men. But they weren't ever Jews, and they didn't come and hang about afterward." "Damned good chaps," Brett said. "It's all rot to talk about it. Michael and I understand each other." "She gave me Robert Cohn's letters. I wouldn't read them." "You wouldn't read any letters, darling. You wouldn't read mine." "I can't read letters," Mike said. "Funny, isn't it?" "You can't read anything." "No. You're wrong there. I read quite a bit. I read when I'm at home." "You'll be writing next," Brett said. "Come on, Michael. Do buck up. You've got to go through with this thing now. He's here. Don't spoil the fiesta." "Well, let him behave, then." "He'll behave. I'll tell him." "You tell him, Jake. Tell him either he must behave or get out." "Yes," I said, "it would be nice for me to tell him." "Look, Brett. Tell Jake what Robert calls you. That is perfect, you know." "Oh, no. I can't." "Go on. We're all friends. Aren't we all friends, Jake?" "I can't tell him. It's too ridiculous." "I'll tell him." "You won't, Michael. Don't be an ass." "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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. CHAPTER 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked together. I heard them laugh. I turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep. There is no reason why because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell there isn't! I figured that all out once, and for six months I never slept with the electric light off. That was another bright idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett Ashley. Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on. I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got something else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money's worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've had. Perhaps that wasn't true, though. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about. I wished Mike would not behave so terribly to Cohn, though. Mike was a bad drunk. Brett was a good drunk. Bill was a good drunk. Cohn was never drunk. Mike was unpleasant after he passed a certain point. I liked to | 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?"<|quote|>"Grand. It's grand the way they bring them out."</|quote|>"To-morrow come the Miuras." "When does the fiesta start?" "Day after to-morrow." "We've got to keep Mike from getting so tight. That kind of stuff is terrible." "We'd better get cleaned up for supper." "Yes. That will be a pleasant meal." "Won't it?" As a matter of fact, supper was a pleasant meal. Brett wore a black, sleeveless evening dress. She looked quite beautiful. Mike acted as though nothing had happened. I had to go up and bring Robert Cohn down. He was reserved and formal, and his face was still taut and sallow, but he cheered up finally. He could not stop looking at Brett. It seemed to make him happy. It must have been pleasant for him to see her looking so lovely, and know he had been away with her and that every one knew it. They could not take that away from him. Bill was very funny. So was Michael. They were good together. It was like certain dinners I remember from the war. There was much wine, an ignored tension, and a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening. Under the wine I lost the disgusted feeling and was happy. It seemed they were all such nice people. CHAPTER 14 I do not know what time I got to bed. I remember undressing, putting on a bathrobe, and standing out on the balcony. I knew I was quite drunk, and when I came in I put on the light over the head of the bed and started to read. I was reading a book by Turgenieff. Probably I read the same two pages over several times. It was one of the stories in "A Sportsman's Sketches." I had read it before, but it seemed quite new. The country became very clear and the feeling of pressure in my head seemed to loosen. I was very drunk and I did not want to shut my eyes because the room would go round and round. If I kept on reading that feeling would pass. I heard Brett and Robert Cohn come up the stairs. Cohn said good night outside the door and went on up to his room. I heard Brett go into the room next door. Mike was already in bed. He had come in with me an hour before. He woke as she came in, and they talked together. I heard them laugh. I turned off the light and tried to go to sleep. It was not necessary to read any more. I could shut my eyes without getting the wheeling sensation. But I could not sleep. There is no reason why because it is dark you should look at things differently from when it is light. The hell there isn't! I figured that all out once, and for six months I never slept with the electric light off. That was another bright idea. To hell with women, anyway. To hell with you, Brett Ashley. Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on. | The Sun Also Rises |
her mother answered with a little laugh. | No speaker | Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to | you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the | doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the | of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I | of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." | guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." "To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to | still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous fan. "She doesn t want to know me!" she said suddenly. "Why don t you say so? You needn t be afraid. I m not afraid!" And she gave a little laugh. Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it. "My dear young lady," he protested, "she knows no one. It s her wretched health." The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn t be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. "Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance. "It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." "To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?" "At present?" he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful | "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!"<|quote|>her mother answered with a little laugh.</|quote|>"Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn | Daisy Miller |
"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please." | Antonida Vassilievna Tarassevitcha | her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further | she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old | of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then | his floundering endeavours. "The blockhead!" exclaimed the Grandmother in Russian. Then she proceeded on her way only to repeat the same story in front of a Saxon statuette which she had sighted from afar, and had commanded, for some reason or another, to be brought to her. Finally, she inquired of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then put on my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s | questions themselves of a practical nature, but related, generally, to God knows what. For instance, on one occasion she halted before a picture which, a poor copy of a well-known original, had a mythological subject. "Of whom is this a portrait?" she inquired. The landlord explained that it was probably that of a countess. "But how know you that?" the old lady retorted. "You live here, yet you cannot say for certain! And why is the picture there at all? And why do its eyes look so crooked?" To all these questions the landlord could return no satisfactory reply, despite his floundering endeavours. "The blockhead!" exclaimed the Grandmother in Russian. Then she proceeded on her way only to repeat the same story in front of a Saxon statuette which she had sighted from afar, and had commanded, for some reason or another, to be brought to her. Finally, she inquired of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then put on my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if | do not know, but it appeared, at least, that she was accounted a person not only of great importance, but also, and still more, of great wealth; and without delay they entered her in the hotel register as "Madame la g n rale, Princesse de Tarassevitcheva," although she had never been a princess in her life. Her retinue, her reserved compartment in the train, her pile of unnecessary trunks, portmanteaux, and strong-boxes, all helped to increase her prestige; while her wheeled chair, her sharp tone and voice, her eccentric questions (put with an air of the most overbearing and unbridled imperiousness), her whole figure upright, rugged, and commanding as it was completed the general awe in which she was held. As she inspected her new abode she ordered her chair to be stopped at intervals in order that, with finger extended towards some article of furniture, she might ply the respectfully smiling, yet secretly apprehensive, landlord with unexpected questions. She addressed them to him in French, although her pronunciation of the language was so bad that sometimes I had to translate them. For the most part, the landlord s answers were unsatisfactory, and failed to please her; nor were the questions themselves of a practical nature, but related, generally, to God knows what. For instance, on one occasion she halted before a picture which, a poor copy of a well-known original, had a mythological subject. "Of whom is this a portrait?" she inquired. The landlord explained that it was probably that of a countess. "But how know you that?" the old lady retorted. "You live here, yet you cannot say for certain! And why is the picture there at all? And why do its eyes look so crooked?" To all these questions the landlord could return no satisfactory reply, despite his floundering endeavours. "The blockhead!" exclaimed the Grandmother in Russian. Then she proceeded on her way only to repeat the same story in front of a Saxon statuette which she had sighted from afar, and had commanded, for some reason or another, to be brought to her. Finally, she inquired of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then put on my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if you did so, it was a matter of no moment." "No, I did not. The Baron was the aggressor by raising his stick at me." Upon that the Grandmother turned sharply to the General. "What? You permitted yourself to treat your tutor thus, you nincompoop, and to dismiss him from his post? You are a blockhead an utter blockhead! I can see that clearly." "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mother," the General replied with a lofty air an air in which there was also a tinge of familiarity. "I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. Moreover, Alexis Ivanovitch has not given you a true account of the matter." "What did you do next?" The old lady inquired of me. "I wanted to challenge the Baron to a duel," I replied as modestly as possible; "but the General protested against my doing so." "And _why_ did you so protest?" she inquired of the General. Then she turned to the landlord, and questioned him as to whether _he_ would not have fought a duel, if challenged. "For," she added, "I can see no difference between you and the Baron; nor can I bear that German visage of yours." Upon | your time of life" "Cette vieille est tomb e en enfance," De Griers whispered to me. "But I want to look round a little," the old lady added to the General. Will you lend me Alexis Ivanovitch for the purpose?" "As much as you like. But I myself yes, and Polina and Monsieur de Griers too we all of us hope to have the pleasure of escorting you." "Mais, madame, cela sera un plaisir," De Griers commented with a bewitching smile. "Plaisir indeed! Why, I look upon you as a perfect fool, monsieur." Then she remarked to the General: "I am not going to let you have any of my money. I must be off to my rooms now, to see what they are like. Afterwards we will look round a little. Lift me up." Again the Grandmother was borne aloft and carried down the staircase amid a perfect bevy of followers the General walking as though he had been hit over the head with a cudgel, and De Griers seeming to be plunged in thought. Endeavouring to be left behind, Mlle. Blanche next thought better of it, and followed the rest, with the Prince in her wake. Only the German savant and Madame de Cominges did not leave the General s apartments. X At spas and, probably, all over Europe hotel landlords and managers are guided in their allotment of rooms to visitors, not so much by the wishes and requirements of those visitors, as by their personal estimate of the same. It may also be said that these landlords and managers seldom make a mistake. To the Grandmother, however, our landlord, for some reason or another, allotted such a sumptuous suite that he fairly overreached himself; for he assigned her a suite consisting of four magnificently appointed rooms, with bathroom, servants quarters, a separate room for her maid, and so on. In fact, during the previous week the suite had been occupied by no less a personage than a Grand Duchess: which circumstance was duly explained to the new occupant, as an excuse for raising the price of these apartments. The Grandmother had herself carried or, rather, wheeled through each room in turn, in order that she might subject the whole to a close and attentive scrutiny; while the landlord an elderly, bald-headed man walked respectfully by her side. What every one took the Grandmother to be I do not know, but it appeared, at least, that she was accounted a person not only of great importance, but also, and still more, of great wealth; and without delay they entered her in the hotel register as "Madame la g n rale, Princesse de Tarassevitcheva," although she had never been a princess in her life. Her retinue, her reserved compartment in the train, her pile of unnecessary trunks, portmanteaux, and strong-boxes, all helped to increase her prestige; while her wheeled chair, her sharp tone and voice, her eccentric questions (put with an air of the most overbearing and unbridled imperiousness), her whole figure upright, rugged, and commanding as it was completed the general awe in which she was held. As she inspected her new abode she ordered her chair to be stopped at intervals in order that, with finger extended towards some article of furniture, she might ply the respectfully smiling, yet secretly apprehensive, landlord with unexpected questions. She addressed them to him in French, although her pronunciation of the language was so bad that sometimes I had to translate them. For the most part, the landlord s answers were unsatisfactory, and failed to please her; nor were the questions themselves of a practical nature, but related, generally, to God knows what. For instance, on one occasion she halted before a picture which, a poor copy of a well-known original, had a mythological subject. "Of whom is this a portrait?" she inquired. The landlord explained that it was probably that of a countess. "But how know you that?" the old lady retorted. "You live here, yet you cannot say for certain! And why is the picture there at all? And why do its eyes look so crooked?" To all these questions the landlord could return no satisfactory reply, despite his floundering endeavours. "The blockhead!" exclaimed the Grandmother in Russian. Then she proceeded on her way only to repeat the same story in front of a Saxon statuette which she had sighted from afar, and had commanded, for some reason or another, to be brought to her. Finally, she inquired of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then put on my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if you did so, it was a matter of no moment." "No, I did not. The Baron was the aggressor by raising his stick at me." Upon that the Grandmother turned sharply to the General. "What? You permitted yourself to treat your tutor thus, you nincompoop, and to dismiss him from his post? You are a blockhead an utter blockhead! I can see that clearly." "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mother," the General replied with a lofty air an air in which there was also a tinge of familiarity. "I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. Moreover, Alexis Ivanovitch has not given you a true account of the matter." "What did you do next?" The old lady inquired of me. "I wanted to challenge the Baron to a duel," I replied as modestly as possible; "but the General protested against my doing so." "And _why_ did you so protest?" she inquired of the General. Then she turned to the landlord, and questioned him as to whether _he_ would not have fought a duel, if challenged. "For," she added, "I can see no difference between you and the Baron; nor can I bear that German visage of yours." Upon this the landlord bowed and departed, though he could not have understood the Grandmother s compliment. "Pardon me, Madame," the General continued with a sneer, "but are duels really feasible?" "Why not? All men are crowing cocks, and that is why they quarrel. _You_, though, I perceive, are a blockhead a man who does not even know how to carry his breeding. Lift me up. Potapitch, see to it that you always have _two_ bearers ready. Go and arrange for their hire. But we shall not require more than two, for I shall need only to be carried upstairs. On the level or in the street I can be _wheeled_ along. Go and tell them that, and pay them in advance, so that they may show me some respect. You too, Potapitch, are always to come with me, and _you_, Alexis Ivanovitch, are to point out to me this Baron as we go along, in order that I may get a squint at the precious Von. And where is that roulette played?" I explained to her that the game was carried on in the salons of the Casino; whereupon there ensued a string of questions as to whether there were many such salons, whether many people played in them, whether those people played a whole day at a time, and whether the game was managed according to fixed rules. At length, I thought it best to say that the most advisable course would be for her to go and see it for herself, since a mere description of it would be a difficult matter. "Then take me straight there," she said, "and do you walk on in front of me, Alexis Ivanovitch." "What, mother? Before you have so much as rested from your journey?" the General inquired with some solicitude. Also, for some reason which I could not divine, he seemed to be growing nervous; and, indeed, the whole party was evincing signs of confusion, and exchanging glances with one another. Probably they were thinking that it would be a ticklish even an embarrassing business to accompany the Grandmother to the Casino, where, very likely, she would perpetrate further eccentricities, and in public too! Yet on their own initiative they had offered to escort her! "Why should I rest?" she retorted. "I am not tired, for I have been sitting still these past five days. Let us see what your | her maid, and so on. In fact, during the previous week the suite had been occupied by no less a personage than a Grand Duchess: which circumstance was duly explained to the new occupant, as an excuse for raising the price of these apartments. The Grandmother had herself carried or, rather, wheeled through each room in turn, in order that she might subject the whole to a close and attentive scrutiny; while the landlord an elderly, bald-headed man walked respectfully by her side. What every one took the Grandmother to be I do not know, but it appeared, at least, that she was accounted a person not only of great importance, but also, and still more, of great wealth; and without delay they entered her in the hotel register as "Madame la g n rale, Princesse de Tarassevitcheva," although she had never been a princess in her life. Her retinue, her reserved compartment in the train, her pile of unnecessary trunks, portmanteaux, and strong-boxes, all helped to increase her prestige; while her wheeled chair, her sharp tone and voice, her eccentric questions (put with an air of the most overbearing and unbridled imperiousness), her whole figure upright, rugged, and commanding as it was completed the general awe in which she was held. As she inspected her new abode she ordered her chair to be stopped at intervals in order that, with finger extended towards some article of furniture, she might ply the respectfully smiling, yet secretly apprehensive, landlord with unexpected questions. She addressed them to him in French, although her pronunciation of the language was so bad that sometimes I had to translate them. For the most part, the landlord s answers were unsatisfactory, and failed to please her; nor were the questions themselves of a practical nature, but related, generally, to God knows what. For instance, on one occasion she halted before a picture which, a poor copy of a well-known original, had a mythological subject. "Of whom is this a portrait?" she inquired. The landlord explained that it was probably that of a countess. "But how know you that?" the old lady retorted. "You live here, yet you cannot say for certain! And why is the picture there at all? And why do its eyes look so crooked?" To all these questions the landlord could return no satisfactory reply, despite his floundering endeavours. "The blockhead!" exclaimed the Grandmother in Russian. Then she proceeded on her way only to repeat the same story in front of a Saxon statuette which she had sighted from afar, and had commanded, for some reason or another, to be brought to her. Finally, she inquired of the landlord what was the value of the carpet in her bedroom, as well as where the said carpet had been manufactured; but, the landlord could do no more than promise to make inquiries. "What donkeys these people are!" she commented. Next, she turned her attention to the bed.<|quote|>"What a huge counterpane!" she exclaimed. "Turn it back, please."</|quote|>The lacqueys did so. "Further yet, further yet," the old lady cried. "Turn it _right_ back. Also, take off those pillows and bolsters, and lift up the feather bed." The bed was opened for her inspection. "Mercifully it contains no bugs," she remarked. "Pull off the whole thing, and then put on my own pillows and sheets. The place is too luxurious for an old woman like myself. It is too large for any one person. Alexis Ivanovitch, come and see me whenever you are not teaching your pupils." "After tomorrow I shall no longer be in the General s service," I replied, "but merely living in the hotel on my own account." "Why so?" "Because, the other day, there arrived from Berlin a German and his wife persons of some importance; and, it chanced that, when taking a walk, I spoke to them in German without having properly compassed the Berlin accent." "Indeed?" "Yes: and this action on my part the Baron held to be an insult, and complained about it to the General, who yesterday dismissed me from his employ." "But I suppose you must have threatened that precious Baron, or something of the kind? However, even if you did so, it was a matter of no moment." "No, I did not. The Baron was the aggressor by raising his stick at me." Upon that the Grandmother turned sharply to the General. "What? You permitted yourself to treat your tutor thus, you nincompoop, and to dismiss him from his post? You are a blockhead an utter blockhead! I can see that clearly." "Do not alarm yourself, my dear mother," the General replied with a lofty air an air in which there was also a tinge of familiarity. "I am quite capable of managing my own affairs. Moreover, Alexis Ivanovitch has not given you a true account of the matter." "What did you do next?" The old lady inquired of me. "I wanted to challenge the Baron to a duel," I replied as modestly as possible; "but the General protested against my doing so." "And _why_ did you so protest?" she inquired of the General. Then she turned to the landlord, and questioned him as to whether _he_ | The Gambler |
and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. | No speaker | I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames | all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. | "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at | more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together | spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: | like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!" "So you did, old fellow!" said the others. "We must burn the house down!" said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called out as loud as she could, "If you | or drink anything; so I'll just see what this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!" It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling, and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put down the bottle, saying to herself "That's quite enough--I hope I shan't grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't drunk quite so much!" Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing, and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head. Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself "Now I can do no more, whatever happens. What _will_ become of me?" Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!" "So you did, old fellow!" said the others. "We must burn the house down!" said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called out as loud as she could, "If you do, I'll set Dinah at you!" There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, "I wonder what they _will_ do next! If they had any sense, they'd take the roof off." After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and Alice heard the Rabbit say, "A barrowful will do, to begin with." "A barrowful of _what?_" thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt, for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the window, and some of them hit her in the face. "I'll put a stop to this," she said to herself, and shouted out, "You'd better not do that again!" which produced another dead silence. Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her head. "If I eat one of these cakes," she thought, "it's sure to make _some_ change in my size; and as it can't possibly make me larger, it must make me smaller, I suppose." So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself safe in a thick wood. "The first thing I've got to do," said Alice to herself, as she wandered about in the wood, "is to grow to my right size again; and the second thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be the best plan." It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a great hurry. An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and feebly stretching out one paw, trying | Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy. "It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what _can_ have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one! There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now," she added in a sorrowful tone; "at least there's no room to grow up any more _here_." "But then," thought Alice, "shall I _never_ get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like _that!_" "Oh, you foolish Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for _you_, and no room at all for any lesson-books!" And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard a voice outside, and stopped to listen. "Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" said the voice. "Fetch me my gloves this moment!" Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it. Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it, that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself "Then I'll go round and get in at the window." "_That_ you won't!" thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything, but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass, from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a cucumber-frame, or something of the sort. Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--" "Pat! Pat! Where are you?" And then a voice she had never heard before, "Sure then I'm here! Digging for apples, yer honour!" "Digging for apples, indeed!" said the Rabbit angrily. "Here! Come and help me out of _this!_" (Sounds of more broken glass.) "Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?" "Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!" (He pronounced it "arrum.") "An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole window!" "Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that." "Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!" There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers now and then; such as, "Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at all!" "Do as I tell you, you coward!"<|quote|>and at last she spread out her hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were _two_ little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass.</|quote|>"What a number of cucumber-frames there must be!" thought Alice. "I wonder what they'll do next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they _could!_ I'm sure _I_ don't want to stay in here any longer!" She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices all talking together: she made out the words: "Where's the other ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill! fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming down! Heads below!" (a loud crash)--"Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, _I_ shan't! _You_ do it!--_That_ I won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to go down the chimney!" "Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?" said Alice to herself. "Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but I _think_ I can kick a little!" She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was) scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then, saying to herself "This is Bill," she gave one sharp kick, and waited to see what would happen next. The first thing she heard was a general chorus of "There goes Bill!" then the Rabbit's voice along--" "Catch him, you by the hedge!" then silence, and then another confusion of voices--"Hold up his head--Brandy now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell us all about it!" Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, (" "That's Bill," thought Alice,) "Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know | Alices Adventures In Wonderland |
"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading." | Katharine Hilbery | for a moment, saying nothing.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>She glanced up at the | Here they stopped and paused for a moment, saying nothing.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>She glanced up at the lighted window near the top | 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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 | 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?" "Of course you can t tell him that," 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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 | 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?" "Of course you can t tell him that," 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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," Cassandra replied. "Queer, but | t tell him that," 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.<|quote|>"You must go in," said Katharine, rousing herself. "He s waiting all this time to go on with his reading."</|quote|>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, | Night And Day |
Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said, | No speaker | has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear | good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very | I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak | a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are | Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they | with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?" "Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley." Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. "I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls." Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt | not, on this occasion, have found any thing to reprove. CHAPTER X One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's decease, Emma was called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who "could not stay five minutes, and wanted particularly to speak with her."--He met her at the parlour-door, and hardly asking her how she did, in the natural key of his voice, sunk it immediately, to say, unheard by her father, "Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning?--Do, if it be possible. Mrs. Weston wants to see you. She must see you." "Is she unwell?" "No, no, not at all--only a little agitated. She would have ordered the carriage, and come to you, but she must see you _alone_, and that you know--" (nodding towards her father) "--Humph!--Can you come?" "Certainly. This moment, if you please. It is impossible to refuse what you ask in such a way. But what can be the matter?--Is she really not ill?" "Depend upon me--but ask no more questions. You will know it all in time. The most unaccountable business! But hush, hush!" To guess what all this meant, was impossible even for Emma. Something really important seemed announced by his looks; but, as her friend was well, she endeavoured not to be uneasy, and settling it with her father, that she would take her walk now, she and Mr. Weston were soon out of the house together and on their way at a quick pace for Randalls. "Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened." "No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon." "Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is." "No, indeed you are mistaken." "-- "Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment." "Upon my word, Emma." "-- "Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?" "Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley." Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. "I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls." Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could only exclaim, and require confirmation, repeated confirmation. "Well," said she at last, trying to recover herself; "this is a circumstance which I must think of at least half a day, before I can at all comprehend it. What!--engaged to her all the winter--before either of them came to Highbury?" "Engaged since October,--secretly engaged.--It has hurt me, Emma, very much. It has hurt his father equally. _Some_ _part_ of his conduct we cannot excuse." Emma pondered a moment, and then replied, "I will not pretend _not_ to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, be assured that no such effect has followed his attentions to me, as you are apprehensive of." Mrs. Weston looked up, afraid to believe; but Emma's countenance was as steady as her words. "That you may have less difficulty in believing this boast, of my present perfect indifference," she continued, "I will farther tell you, that there was a period in the early part of our acquaintance, when I did like him, when I was very much disposed to be attached to him--nay, was attached--and how it came to cease, is perhaps the wonder. Fortunately, however, it did cease. I have really for some time past, for at least these three months, cared nothing about him. You may believe me, Mrs. Weston. This is the simple truth." Mrs. Weston kissed her with tears of joy; and when she could find utterance, assured her, that this protestation had done her more good than any thing else in the world could do. "Mr. Weston will be almost as much relieved as myself," said she. "On this point we have been wretched. It was our darling wish that you might be attached to each other--and we were persuaded that it was so.-- Imagine what we have been feeling on your account." "I have escaped; and that I should escape, may be a matter of grateful wonder to you and myself. But this does not acquit _him_, Mrs. Weston; and I must say, that I think him greatly to blame. What right had he to come among us with affection and faith engaged, and with manners so _very_ disengaged? What right had he to endeavour to please, as he certainly did--to distinguish any one young woman with persevering attention, as he certainly did--while he really belonged to another?--How could he tell what mischief he might be doing?--How could he tell that he might not be making me in love with him?--very wrong, very wrong indeed." "From something that he said, my dear Emma, I rather imagine--" "And how could _she_ bear such behaviour! Composure with a witness! to look on, while repeated attentions were offering to another woman, before her face, | a quick pace for Randalls. "Now,"--said Emma, when they were fairly beyond the sweep gates,--"now Mr. Weston, do let me know what has happened." "No, no,"--he gravely replied.--"Don't ask me. I promised my wife to leave it all to her. She will break it to you better than I can. Do not be impatient, Emma; it will all come out too soon." "Break it to me," cried Emma, standing still with terror.--"Good God!--Mr. Weston, tell me at once.--Something has happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I charge you tell me this moment what it is." "No, indeed you are mistaken." "-- "Mr. Weston do not trifle with me.--Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it?--I charge you by all that is sacred, not to attempt concealment." "Upon my word, Emma." "-- "Your word!--why not your honour!--why not say upon your honour, that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good Heavens!--What can be to be _broke_ to me, that does not relate to one of that family?" "Upon my honour," said he very seriously, "it does not. It is not in the smallest degree connected with any human being of the name of Knightley." Emma's courage returned, and she walked on. "I was wrong," he continued, "in talking of its being _broke_ to you. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it does not concern you--it concerns only myself,--that is, we hope.--Humph!--In short, my dear Emma, there is no occasion to be so uneasy about it. I don't say that it is not a disagreeable business--but things might be much worse.--If we walk fast, we shall soon be at Randalls." Emma found that she must wait; and now it required little effort. She asked no more questions therefore, merely employed her own fancy, and that soon pointed out to her the probability of its being some money concern--something just come to light, of a disagreeable nature in the circumstances of the family,--something which the late event at Richmond had brought forward. Her fancy was very active. Half a dozen natural children, perhaps--and poor Frank cut off!--This, though very undesirable, would be no matter of agony to her. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity. "Who is that gentleman on horseback?" said she, as they proceeded--speaking more to assist Mr. Weston in keeping his secret, than with any other view. "I do not know.--One of the Otways.--Not Frank;--it is not Frank, I assure you. You will not see him. He is half way to Windsor by this time." "Has your son been with you, then?" "Oh! yes--did not you know?--Well, well, never mind." For a moment he was silent; and then added, in a tone much more guarded and demure, "Yes, Frank came over this morning, just to ask us how we did." They hurried on, and were speedily at Randalls.--" "Well, my dear," said he, as they entered the room--"I have brought her, and now I hope you will soon be better. I shall leave you together. There is no use in delay. I shall not be far off, if you want me." "--And Emma distinctly heard him add, in a lower tone, before he quitted the room,--" "I have been as good as my word. She has not the least idea."<|quote|>Mrs. Weston was looking so ill, and had an air of so much perturbation, that Emma's uneasiness increased; and the moment they were alone, she eagerly said,</|quote|>"What is it my dear friend? Something of a very unpleasant nature, I find, has occurred;--do let me know directly what it is. I have been walking all this way in complete suspense. We both abhor suspense. Do not let mine continue longer. It will do you good to speak of your distress, whatever it may be." "Have you indeed no idea?" said Mrs. Weston in a trembling voice. "Cannot you, my dear Emma--cannot you form a guess as to what you are to hear?" "So far as that it relates to Mr. Frank Churchill, I do guess." "You are right. It does relate to him, and I will tell you directly;" (resuming her work, and seeming resolved against looking up.) "He has been here this very morning, on a most extraordinary errand. It is impossible to express our surprize. He came to speak to his father on a subject,--to announce an attachment--" She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself, and then of Harriet. "More than an attachment, indeed," resumed Mrs. Weston; "an engagement--a positive engagement.--What will you say, Emma--what will any body say, when it is known that Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax are engaged;--nay, that they have been long engaged!" Emma even jumped with surprize;--and, horror-struck, exclaimed, "Jane Fairfax!--Good God! You are not serious? You do not mean it?" "You may well be amazed," returned Mrs. Weston, still averting her eyes, and talking on with eagerness, that Emma might have time to recover-- "You may well be amazed. But it is even so. There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October--formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body. Not a creature knowing it but themselves--neither the Campbells, nor her family, nor his.--It is so wonderful, that though perfectly convinced of the fact, it is yet almost incredible to myself. I can hardly believe it.--I thought I knew him." Emma scarcely heard what was said.--Her mind was divided between two ideas--her own former conversations with him about Miss Fairfax; and poor Harriet;--and for some time she could | Emma |
urged her lover. | No speaker | your heart against me, Rose,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"Oh Harry, Harry," said the | I stood before." "You harden your heart against me, Rose,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"Oh Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; | 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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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. | 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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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 | 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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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 | See here look, look, my dear!" "Not aunt," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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 | 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," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon one man Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the right and on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes. He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still. A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he saw that the jurymen had turned together, to consider their verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above | 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,"<|quote|>urged her lover.</|quote|>"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." Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow: some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman. "Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What is the matter?" It is a world of disappointment: often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead! CHAPTER LII. FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and eager eyes | Oliver Twist |
"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." | Mrs. Manson Mingott | in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her | bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in | useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole | her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if | if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want | one else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all | appreciation of her husband. There was a moment's pause, and then Archer felt it incumbent on him to say: "All right. Shall we go together this afternoon?" His wife's face brightened, but she instantly answered: "Oh, you'd much better go alone. It bores Granny to see the same people too often." Archer's heart was beating violently when he rang old Mrs. Mingott's bell. He had wanted above all things to go alone, for he felt sure the visit would give him the chance of saying a word in private to the Countess Olenska. He had determined to wait till the chance presented itself naturally; and here it was, and here he was on the doorstep. Behind the door, behind the curtains of the yellow damask room next to the hall, she was surely awaiting him; in another moment he should see her, and be able to speak to her before she led him to the sick-room. He wanted only to put one question: after that his course would be clear. What he wished to ask was simply the date of her return to Washington; and that question she could hardly refuse to answer. But in the yellow sitting-room it was the mulatto maid who waited. Her white teeth shining like a keyboard, she pushed back the sliding doors and ushered him into old Catherine's presence. The old woman sat in a vast throne-like arm-chair near her bed. Beside her was a mahogany stand bearing a cast bronze lamp with an engraved globe, over which a green paper shade had been balanced. There was not a book or a newspaper in reach, nor any evidence of feminine employment: conversation had always been Mrs. Mingott's sole pursuit, and she would have scorned to feign an interest in fancywork. Archer saw no trace of the slight distortion left by her stroke. She merely looked paler, with darker shadows in the folds and recesses of her obesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by a starched bow between her first two chins, and the muslin kerchief crossed over her billowing purple dressing-gown, she seemed like some shrewd and kindly ancestress of her own who might have yielded too freely to the pleasures of the table. She held out one of the little hands that nestled in a hollow of her huge lap like pet animals, and called to the maid: "Don't let in any one else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided | darker shadows in the folds and recesses of her obesity; and, in the fluted mob-cap tied by a starched bow between her first two chins, and the muslin kerchief crossed over her billowing purple dressing-gown, she seemed like some shrewd and kindly ancestress of her own who might have yielded too freely to the pleasures of the table. She held out one of the little hands that nestled in a hollow of her huge lap like pet animals, and called to the maid: "Don't let in any one else. If my daughters call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!'<|quote|>"And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance."</|quote|>The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own | The Age Of Innocence |
"I came up behind you hesitated went on" | The Invisible Man | you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was | have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I | whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And | "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. | his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man | t_ know. I m beat." "That s all," said the Voice. "I m invisible. That s what I want you to understand." "Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?" "I m invisible. That s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this" "But whereabouts?" interrupted Mr. Marvel. "Here! Six yards in front of you." "Oh, _come_! I ain t blind. You ll be telling me next you re just thin air. I m not one of your ignorant tramps" "Yes, I am thin air. You re looking through me." "What! Ain t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_ what is it? jabber. Is it that?" "I am just a human being solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too But I m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible." "What, real like?" "Yes, real." "Let s have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!" he said, "how you made me jump! gripping me like that!" He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, | his eyes and clasping his hand on his brow with a tragic gesture. He was suddenly taken by the collar and shaken violently, and left more dazed than ever. "Don t be a fool," said the Voice. "I m off my blooming chump," said Mr. Marvel. "It s no good. It s fretting about them blarsted boots. I m off my blessed blooming chump. Or it s spirits." "Neither one thing nor the other," said the Voice. "Listen!" "Chump," said Mr. Marvel. "One minute," said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with self-control. "Well?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been dug in the chest by a finger. "You think I m just imagination? Just imagination?" "What else _can_ you be?" said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of his neck. "Very well," said the Voice, in a tone of relief. "Then I m going to throw flints at you till you think differently." "But where _are_ yer?" The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the air, and missed Mr. Marvel s shoulder by a hair s-breadth. Mr. Marvel, turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path, hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle, and came head over heels into a sitting position. "_Now_," said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the air above the tramp. "Am I imagination?" Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. "If you struggle any more," said the Voice, "I shall throw the flint at your head." "It s a fair do," said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. "I don t understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself down. Rot away. I m done." The third flint fell. "It s very simple," said the Voice. "I m an invisible man." "Tell us something I don t know," said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain. "Where you ve hid how you do it I _don t_ know. I m beat." "That s all," said the Voice. "I m invisible. That s what I want you to understand." "Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?" "I m invisible. That s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this" "But whereabouts?" interrupted Mr. Marvel. "Here! Six yards in front of you." "Oh, _come_! I ain t blind. You ll be telling me next you re just thin air. I m not one of your ignorant tramps" "Yes, I am thin air. You re looking through me." "What! Ain t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_ what is it? jabber. Is it that?" "I am just a human being solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too But I m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible." "What, real like?" "Yes, real." "Let s have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!" he said, "how you made me jump! gripping me like that!" He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day. Haysman s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in the air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever imaginative qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined strong [rope?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung handle, one could be hurled violently against a sack at the other end, came in for considerable favour among the adolescents, as also did the swings and the cocoanut shies. There was also promenading, and the steam organ attached to a small roundabout filled the air with a pungent flavour of oil and with equally pungent music. Members of the club, who had attended church in the morning, were splendid in badges of pink and green, and some of the gayer-minded had also adorned their bowler hats with brilliant-coloured favours of ribbon. Old Fletcher, whose conceptions of holiday-making were severe, was visible through the jasmine about his window or through the open door (whichever way you chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on two chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room. About four o clock a stranger entered the village from the direction of the downs. He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath. His | Mr. Marvel. "Here! Six yards in front of you." "Oh, _come_! I ain t blind. You ll be telling me next you re just thin air. I m not one of your ignorant tramps" "Yes, I am thin air. You re looking through me." "What! Ain t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_ what is it? jabber. Is it that?" "I am just a human being solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too But I m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible." "What, real like?" "Yes, real." "Let s have a hand of you," said Marvel, "if you _are_ real. It won t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then _Lord_!" he said, "how you made me jump! gripping me like that!" He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel s face was astonishment. "I m dashed!" he said. "If this don t beat cock-fighting! Most remarkable! And there I can see a rabbit clean through you, arf a mile away! Not a bit of you visible except" He scrutinised the apparently empty space keenly. "You aven t been eatin bread and cheese?" he asked, holding the invisible arm. "You re quite right, and it s not quite assimilated into the system." "Ah!" said Mr. Marvel. "Sort of ghostly, though." "Of course, all this isn t half so wonderful as you think." "It s quite wonderful enough for _my_ modest wants," said Mr. Thomas Marvel. "Howjer manage it! How the dooce is it done?" "It s too long a story. And besides" "I tell you, the whole business fairly beats me," said Mr. Marvel. "What I want to say at present is this: I need help. I have come to that I came upon you suddenly. I was wandering, mad with rage, naked, impotent. I could have murdered. And I saw you" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel.<|quote|>"I came up behind you hesitated went on"</|quote|>Mr. Marvel s expression was eloquent. "then stopped. Here, I said, is an outcast like myself. This is the man for me. So I turned back and came to you you. And" "_Lord_!" said Mr. Marvel. "But I m all in a tizzy. May I ask How is it? And what you may be requiring in the way of help? Invisible!" "I want you to help me get clothes and shelter and then, with other things. I ve left them long enough. If you won t well! But you _will must_." "Look here," said Mr. Marvel. "I m too flabbergasted. Don t knock me about any more. And leave me go. I must get steady a bit. And you ve pretty near broken my toe. It s all so unreasonable. Empty downs, empty sky. Nothing visible for miles except the bosom of Nature. And then comes a voice. A voice out of heaven! And stones! And a fist Lord!" "Pull yourself together," said the Voice, "for you have to do the job I ve chosen for you." Mr. Marvel blew out his cheeks, and his eyes were round. "I ve chosen you," said the Voice. "You are the only man except some of those fools down there, who knows there is such a thing as an invisible man. You have to be my helper. Help me and I will do great things for you. An invisible man is a man of power." He stopped for a moment to sneeze violently. "But if you betray me," he said, "if you fail to do as I direct you" He paused and tapped Mr. Marvel s shoulder smartly. Mr. Marvel gave a yelp of terror at the touch. "I don t want to betray you," said Mr. Marvel, edging away from the direction of the fingers. "Don t you go a-thinking that, whatever you do. All I want to do is to help you just tell me what I got to do. (Lord!) Whatever you want done, that I m most willing to do." CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL S VISIT TO IPING After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless. It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the "Coach and Horses." Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations. Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics and believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day. Haysman s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was | The Invisible Man |
"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," | Fanny Price | very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and | and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, | you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; | it." "No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you." "Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, | such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn." "It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act." "Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it." "No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you." "Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible "What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat." "Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her | who was presiding there. "Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want your services." Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do. "Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your _present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife." "Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act." "Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at." "If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn." "It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act." "Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it." "No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you." "Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible "What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat." "Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more." "I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is." Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, "I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me," and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them" "; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from | Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part." "_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle." "I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men." "I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done I will look it over again." "Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. "Do not you think he would?" "_I_ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner. Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire. "They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself. "I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?" "My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play." "_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_" (looking round), "it certainly will not be taken." Edmund said no more. "If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman, you know." "_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage." Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there. "Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want your services." Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do. "Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your _present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife." "Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act." "Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at." "If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn." "It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act." "Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it." "No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you." "Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible "What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat." "Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more." "I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is." Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, "I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me," and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them" "; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour. Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea again she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended. The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do; he must give it up. "But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he added. "We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them." While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you | of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do. "Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your _present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife." "Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act." "Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at." "If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn." "It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act." "Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it." "No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you." "Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."<|quote|>"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me,"</|quote|>cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible "What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat." "Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more." "I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is." Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, | Mansfield Park |
She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. | No speaker | must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a | it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so | captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once | in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work." The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part | paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G ! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things." Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work." The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in | power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?" A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir." "And don't they live in Wimpole Street?" "Yes, sir." "Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G ! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things." Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work." The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of | to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any impression. As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself. It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one. Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin. The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her head. She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?" A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir." "And don't they live in Wimpole Street?" "Yes, sir." "Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G ! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things." Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work." The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact. What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation. Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund. "Dear Fanny, You know our present wretchedness. May God support you under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last blow Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet | every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?" A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir." "And don't they live in Wimpole Street?" "Yes, sir." "Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G ! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things." Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone." "It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."<|quote|>She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer.</|quote|>"It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work." The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact. What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for | Mansfield Park |
"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?" | Fagin | received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the | the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes | put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" | could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, | scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal | I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. "Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true | 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 other in some surprise. "Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. "You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?" "_I_ should think not!" replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it. "No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but" and again the old man paused. "But wot?" inquired Sikes. "I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!" "Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. "Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!" Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return. "Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they descended the stairs. "Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!" The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed. "Not now," said the Jew, turning softly away. "To-morrow. To-morrow." CHAPTER XX. WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night. "To to stop there, sir?" asked Oliver, anxiously. "No, no, my dear. Not to stop there," replied the Jew. "We shouldn't like to lose you. Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. | like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise. "Now, Fagin," said Nancy with a laugh. "Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!" "Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the Jew, patting her on the neck. "It _was_ about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!" "What about him?" demanded Sikes. "He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully. "He!" exclaimed Sikes. "Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill." "I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big." "Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating. "And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough." "Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead. "I've thought of it all," said the Jew with energy. "I've I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy. "Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean." "Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you like, Bill." "And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?" "Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some confusion, "not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides." "When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.<|quote|>"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"</|quote|>"I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow," rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy." "Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon." "No," rejoined Sikes. "It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew. Sikes nodded. "And about" "Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do." After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit. These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell. "Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew, muffling himself up as before. "Good-night." Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be. The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs. "Always the way!" | Oliver Twist |
"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you." | Emma | the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a | But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid | happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be | Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is | her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her | was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed | And the same may be said of Mrs. Jeffereys--Clara Partridge, that was--and of the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and of more than I can enumerate. Upon my word it is enough to put one in a fright. I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I begin now to comprehend that a married woman has many things to call her attention. I believe I was half an hour this morning shut up with my housekeeper." "But every thing of that kind," said Emma, "will soon be in so regular a train--" "Well," said Mrs. Elton, laughing, "we shall see." Emma, finding her so determined upon neglecting her music, had nothing more to say; and, after a moment's pause, Mrs. Elton chose another subject. "We have been calling at Randalls," said she, "and found them both at home; and very pleasant people they seem to be. I like them extremely. Mr. Weston seems an excellent creature--quite a first-rate favourite with me already, I assure you. And _she_ appears so truly good--there is something so motherly and kind-hearted about her, that it wins upon one directly. She was your governess, I think?" Emma was almost too much astonished to answer; but Mrs. Elton hardly waited for the affirmative before she went on. "Having understood as much, I was rather astonished to find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman." "Mrs. Weston's manners," said Emma, "were always particularly good. Their propriety, simplicity, and elegance, would make them the safest model for any young woman." "And who do you think came in while we were there?" Emma was quite at a loss. The tone implied some old acquaintance--and how could she possibly guess? "Knightley!" continued Mrs. Elton; "Knightley himself!--Was not it lucky?--for, not being within when he called the other day, I had never seen him before; and of course, as so particular a friend of Mr. E.'s, I had a great curiosity. 'My friend Knightley' had been so often mentioned, that I was really impatient to see him; and I must do my caro sposo the justice to say that he need not be ashamed of his friend. Knightley is quite the gentleman. I like him very much. Decidedly, I think, a very gentleman-like man." Happily, it was now time to be gone. They were off; and Emma could breathe. "Insufferable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had supposed. Absolutely insufferable! Knightley!--I could not have believed it. Knightley!--never seen him in her life before, and call him Knightley!--and discover that he is a gentleman! A little upstart, vulgar being, with her Mr. E., and her _caro_ _sposo_, and her resources, and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery. Actually to discover that Mr. Knightley is a gentleman! I doubt whether he will return the compliment, and discover her to be a lady. I could not have believed it! And to propose that she and I should unite to form a musical club! One would fancy we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Weston!--Astonished that the person who had brought me up should be a gentlewoman! Worse and worse. I never met with her equal. Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed." In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was necessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr. Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very much.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him, had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object of their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in contemptuous treatment of Harriet. Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry on the subject.-- "Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word, I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated to affect | Much beyond my hopes. Harriet is disgraced by any comparison. Oh! what would Frank Churchill say to her, if he were here? How angry and how diverted he would be! Ah! there I am--thinking of him directly. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself out! Frank Churchill comes as regularly into my mind!" "-- All this ran so glibly through her thoughts, that by the time her father had arranged himself, after the bustle of the Eltons' departure, and was ready to speak, she was very tolerably capable of attending. "Well, my dear," he deliberately began, "considering we never saw her before, she seems a very pretty sort of young lady; and I dare say she was very much pleased with you. She speaks a little too quick. A little quickness of voice there is which rather hurts the ear. But I believe I am nice; I do not like strange voices; and nobody speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems a very obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, and no doubt will make him a very good wife. Though I think he had better not have married. I made the best excuses I could for not having been able to wait on him and Mrs. Elton on this happy occasion; I said that I hoped I _should_ in the course of the summer. But I ought to have gone before. Not to wait upon a bride is very remiss. Ah! it shews what a sad invalid I am! But I do not like the corner into Vicarage Lane."<|quote|>"I dare say your apologies were accepted, sir. Mr. Elton knows you."</|quote|>"Yes: but a young lady--a bride--I ought to have paid my respects to her if possible. It was being very deficient." "But, my dear papa, you are no friend to matrimony; and therefore why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a _bride_? It ought to be no recommendation to _you_. It is encouraging people to marry if you make so much of them." "No, my dear, I never encouraged any body to marry, but I would always wish to pay every proper attention to a lady--and a bride, especially, is never to be neglected. More is avowedly due to _her_. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be who they may." "Well, papa, if this is not encouragement to marry, I do not know what is. And I should never have expected you to be lending your sanction to such vanity-baits for poor young ladies." "My dear, you do not understand me. This is a matter of mere common politeness and good-breeding, and has nothing to do with any encouragement to people to marry." Emma had done. Her father was growing nervous, and could not understand _her_. Her mind returned to Mrs. Elton's offences, and long, very long, did they occupy her. CHAPTER XV Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment, but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood; and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs. Elton's consequence only could surpass. There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury, as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging, following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with a good grace | Emma |
"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that." | Joe Hamilton | Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. | doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't | invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from | old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education | thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him. "Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was | took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him. "Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the distinction they conferred upon my family, but I am not. I am ungratefully sad. A man must be very high or very low to take the sensible view of life that keeps him from being sad. I must confess that I have aspired to the depths without ever being fully able to reach them." "Now look around a bit. See that little girl over there? That 's Viola. Two years ago she wrenched up an iron stool from the floor of a lunch-room, and killed another woman with it. She 's nineteen,--just about your age, by the way. Well, she had friends with a certain amount of pull. She got out of it, and no one thinks the worse of Viola. You see, Hamilton, in this life we are all suffering from fever, and no one edges away from the other because he finds him a little warm. It 's dangerous when you 're not used to it; | to speak, but she checked him. "Don't you daih to cuss ag'in or befo' Gawd dey 'll be somep'n fu' one o' dis fambly to be rottin' in jail fu'!" The boy was cowed by his mother's manner. He was gathering his few belongings in a bundle. "I ain't goin' to cuss," he said sullenly, "I 'm goin' out o' your way." "Oh, go on," she said, "go on. It 's been a long time sence you been my son. You on yo' way to hell, an' you is been fu' lo dese many days." Joe got out of the house as soon as possible. He did not speak to Kit nor look at his mother. He felt like a cur, because he knew deep down in his heart that he had only been waiting for some excuse to take this step. As he slammed the door behind him, his mother flung herself down by Kit's side and mingled her tears with her daughter's. But Kit did not raise her head. "Dey ain't nothin' lef' but you now, Kit;" but the girl did not speak, she only shook with hard sobs. Then her mother raised her head and almost screamed, "My Gawd, not you, Kit!" The girl rose, and then dropped unconscious in her mother's arms. Joe took his clothes to a lodging-house that he knew of, and then went to the club to drink himself up to the point of going to see Hattie after the show. XI BROKEN HOPES What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying. Joe needed especially its clarifying property, for though he knew himself a cur, he went away from his mother's house feeling himself somehow aggrieved, and the feeling grew upon him the more he thought of it. His mother had ruined his chance in life, and he could never hold up his head again. Yes, he had heard that several of the fellows at the club had shady reputations, but surely to be the son of a thief or a supposed thief was not like being the criminal himself. At the Banner he took a seat by himself, and, ordering a cocktail, sat glowering at the few other lonely members who had happened to drop in. There were not many of them, and the contagion of unsociability had taken possession of the house. The people sat scattered around at different tables, perfectly unmindful of the bartender, who cursed them under his breath for not "getting together." Joe's mind was filled with bitter thoughts. How long had he been away from home? he asked himself. Nearly a year. Nearly a year passed in New York, and he had come to be what he so much desired,--a part of its fast life,--and now in a moment an old woman's stubbornness had destroyed all that he had builded. What would Thomas say when he heard it? What would the other fellows think? And Hattie? It was plain that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him. "Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the distinction they conferred upon my family, but I am not. I am ungratefully sad. A man must be very high or very low to take the sensible view of life that keeps him from being sad. I must confess that I have aspired to the depths without ever being fully able to reach them." "Now look around a bit. See that little girl over there? That 's Viola. Two years ago she wrenched up an iron stool from the floor of a lunch-room, and killed another woman with it. She 's nineteen,--just about your age, by the way. Well, she had friends with a certain amount of pull. She got out of it, and no one thinks the worse of Viola. You see, Hamilton, in this life we are all suffering from fever, and no one edges away from the other because he finds him a little warm. It 's dangerous when you 're not used to it; but once you go through the parching process, you become inoculated against further contagion. Now, there 's Barney over there, as decent a fellow as I know; but he has been indicted twice for pocket-picking. A half-dozen fellows whom you meet here every night have killed their man. Others have done worse things for which you respect them less. Poor Wallace, who is just coming in, and who looks like a jaunty ragpicker, came here about six months ago with about two thousand dollars, the proceeds from the sale of a house his father had left him. He 'll sleep in one of the club chairs to-night, and not from choice. He spent his two thousand learning. But, after all, it was a good investment. It was like buying an annuity. He begins to know already how to live on others as they have lived on him. The plucked bird's beak is sharpened for other's feathers. From now on Wallace will live, eat, drink, and sleep at the expense of others, and will forget to mourn his lost money. He will go on this way until, broken and useless, the poor-house or the potter's field gets him. Oh, it 's a fine, rich life, my lad. I know you 'll like it. I said you would the first time I saw you. It has plenty of stir in it, and a man never gets lonesome. Only the rich are lonesome. It 's only the independent who depend upon others." Sadness laughed a peculiar laugh, and there was a look in his terribly bright eyes that made Joe creep. If he could only have understood all that the man was saying to him, he might even yet have turned back. But he did n't. He ordered another drink. The only effect that the talk of Sadness had upon him was to make him feel wonderfully "in it." It gave him a false bravery, and he mentally told himself that now he would not be afraid to face Hattie. He put out his hand to Sadness with a knowing look. "Thanks, Sadness," he said, "you 've helped me lots." Sadness brushed the proffered hand away and sprung up. "You lie," he cried, "I have n't; I was only fool enough to try;" and he turned hastily away from the table. Joe looked surprised at first, and then laughed at his friend's retreating | that she would never notice him again. He had no doubt but that the malice of Minty Brown would prompt her to seek out all of his friends and make the story known. Why had he not tried to placate her by disavowing sympathy with his mother? He would have had no compunction about doing so, but he had thought of it too late. He sat brooding over his trouble until the bartender called with respectful sarcasm to ask if he wanted to lease the glass he had. He gave back a silly laugh, gulped the rest of the liquor down, and was ordering another when Sadness came in. He came up directly to Joe and sat down beside him. "Mr. Hamilton says 'Make it two, Jack,'" he said with easy familiarity. "Well, what 's the matter, old man? You 're looking glum." "I feel glum." "The divine Hattie has n't been cutting any capers, has she? The dear old girl has n't been getting hysterical at her age? Let us hope not." Joe glared at him. Why in the devil should this fellow be so sadly gay when he was weighted down with sorrow and shame and disgust? "Come, come now, Hamilton, if you 're sore because I invited myself to take a drink with you, I 'll withdraw the order. I know the heroic thing to say is that I 'll pay for the drinks myself, but I can't screw my courage up to the point of doing so unnatural a thing." Young Hamilton hastened to protest.<|quote|>"Oh, I know you fellows now well enough to know how many drinks to pay for. It ain't that."</|quote|>"Well, then, out with it. What is it? Have n't been up to anything, have you?" The desire came to Joe to tell this man the whole truth, just what was the matter, and so to relieve his heart. On the impulse he did. If he had expected much from Sadness he was disappointed, for not a muscle of the man's face changed during the entire recital. When it was over, he looked at his companion critically through a wreath of smoke. Then he said: "For a fellow who has had for a full year the advantage of the education of the New York clubs, you are strangely young. Let me see, you are nineteen or twenty now--yes. Well, that perhaps accounts for it. It 's a pity you were n't born older. It 's a pity most men are n't. They would n't have to take so much time and lose so many good things learning. Now, Mr. Hamilton, let me tell you, and you will pardon me for it, that you are a fool. Your case is n't half as bad as that of nine-tenths of the fellows that hang around here. Now, for instance, my father was hung." Joe started and gave a gasp of horror. "Oh, yes, but it was done with a very good rope and by the best citizens of Texas, so it seems that I really ought to be very grateful to them for the distinction they conferred upon my family, but I am not. I am ungratefully sad. A man must be very high or very low to take the sensible view of life that keeps him from being sad. I must confess that I have aspired to the depths without ever being fully able to reach them." "Now look around a bit. See that little girl over there? That 's Viola. Two years ago she wrenched up an iron stool from the floor of a lunch-room, and killed another woman with it. She 's nineteen,--just about your age, by the way. Well, she had friends with a certain amount of pull. She got out of it, and no one thinks the worse of Viola. You see, Hamilton, in this life we are all suffering from fever, and no one edges away from the other because he finds him a little warm. It 's dangerous when you 're not used to it; but once you go through the parching process, you become inoculated against further contagion. Now, there 's Barney over there, as decent a fellow as I know; but he has been indicted twice for pocket-picking. A half-dozen fellows whom you meet here every night have killed their man. Others have done worse things for which you respect them less. Poor Wallace, who is just coming in, and who looks like a jaunty ragpicker, came here about six months ago with about two thousand dollars, the proceeds from the sale of a house his father had left him. He 'll sleep in one of the club chairs to-night, and not from choice. He spent his two thousand learning. But, after all, it was a good investment. It was like buying an annuity. He begins to know already how to live on others as they have lived on him. The plucked bird's beak is sharpened for other's feathers. From now on Wallace will live, eat, drink, and sleep at the expense of others, and will forget to mourn his lost money. He will go on this | The Sport Of The Gods |
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." | Mrs. Jennings | am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" | Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not | the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking | bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the | I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon s horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby s was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, | once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon s horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby s was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor s right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?" "Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?" "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, | came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it." "My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter s reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you mean, ma am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!" "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not." "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour." Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon s horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby s was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor s right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning." Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?" "Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?" "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago." Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby s groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house. Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance. As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it. "Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?" "Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby." "Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life." "I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety." "On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure." "But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?" "If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value | of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable. "Well, then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return." "You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him." "Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is." "I do not want to pry into other men s concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon s horses were announced. "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind." "I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about." He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma am?" said almost every body.<|quote|>"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."</|quote|>"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel s, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby s was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but | Sense And Sensibility |
"Temperature." | Major Callendar | that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was | me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. | long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but | and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and | . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We | getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned | riot or to the necessity for military intervention. The dread of having to call in the troops was vivid to him; soldiers put one thing straight, but leave a dozen others crooked, and they love to humiliate the civilian administration. One soldier was in the room this evening a stray subaltern from a Gurkha regiment; he was a little drunk, and regarded his presence as providential. The Collector sighed. There seemed nothing for it but the old weary business of compromise and moderation. He longed for the good old days when an Englishman could satisfy his own honour and no questions asked afterwards. Poor young Heaslop had taken a step in this direction, by refusing bail, but the Collector couldn't feel this was wise of poor young Heaslop. Not only would the Nawab Bahadur and others be angry, but the Government of India itself also watches and behind it is that caucus of cranks and cravens, the British Parliament. He had constantly to remind himself that, in the eyes of the law, Aziz was not yet guilty, and the effort fatigued him. The others, less responsible, could behave naturally. They had started speaking of "women and children" that phrase that exempts the male from sanity when it has been repeated a few times. Each felt that all he loved best in the world was at stake, demanded revenge, and was filled with a not unpleasing glow, in which the chilly and half-known features of Miss Quested vanished, and were replaced by all that is sweetest and warmest in the private life. "But it's the women and children," they repeated, and the Collector knew he ought to stop them intoxicating themselves, but he hadn't the heart. "They ought to be compelled to give hostages," etc. Many of the said women and children were leaving for the Hill Station in a few days, and the suggestion was made that they should be packed off at once in a special train. "_And_ a jolly suggestion," the subaltern cried. "The army's got to come in sooner or later. (A special train was in his mind inseparable from troops.) This would never have happened if Barabas Hill was under military control. Station a bunch of Gurkhas at the entrance of the cave was all that was wanted." "Mrs. Blakiston was saying if only there were a few Tommies," remarked someone. "English no good," he cried, getting his loyalties mixed. "Native troops for this country. Give me the sporting type of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" reinforced the Major. "No, what about him?" "Heaslop warned Miss Quested's servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again." Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity. "Oh, I'm being misunderstood, apologies," said the Major offensively. "I didn't mean they bribed Mr. Fielding." "Then what do you mean?" "They paid the other Indian to make you late Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!" "That's ridiculous . . ." He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud. Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. "Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn't it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can't be found. Pretty." His voice broke into a roar. "It's not the time for sitting down. It's the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars." The Major's outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole's behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, "I suppose nothing that's said inside the club will go outside the club?" winking the while at Lesley. "Why should it?" responded Lesley. "Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can't run with the hare and hunt with the | of native, give me Gurkhas, give me Rajputs, give me Jats, give me the Punjabi, give me Sikhs, give me Marathas, Bhils, Afridis and Pathans, and really if it comes to that, I don't mind if you give me the scums of the bazaars. Properly led, mind. I'd lead them anywhere" The Collector nodded at him pleasantly, and said to his own people: "Don't start carrying arms about. I want everything to go on precisely as usual, until there's cause for the contrary. Get the womenfolk off to the hills, but do it quietly, and for Heaven's sake no more talk of special trains. Never mind what you think or feel. Possibly I have feelings too. One isolated Indian has attempted is charged with an attempted crime." He flipped his forehead hard with his finger-nail, and they all realized that he felt as deeply as they did, and they loved him, and determined not to increase his difficulties. "Act upon that fact until there are more facts," he concluded. "Assume every Indian is an angel." They murmured, "Right you are, Burra Sahib. . . . Angels. . . . Exactly. . . ." From the subaltern: "Exactly what I said. The native's all right if you get him alone. Lesley! Lesley! You remember the one I had a knock with on your Maidan last month. Well, he was all right. Any native who plays polo is all right. What you've got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I'm talking about this time." The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, "She's better," and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, "H'm!" Everyone began pressing him for details. "No one's out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature," was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient's recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this. "Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it." "Take me some time to do that." "How's the old lady?"<|quote|>"Temperature."</|quote|>"My wife heard she was sinking." "So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can't be plagued with questions, Lesley." "Sorry, old man." "Heaslop's just behind me." At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib's cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law. "I wish to God I hadn't given my jewel of an assistant leave. I'ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I'm responsible, that's what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did." Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: "I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in." "No one blames you, my dear Callendar," said the Collector, looking down. "We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally." "I don't feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I've no use for the man who shirks it." His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks. "Heard about Miss Quested's servant?" | A Passage To India |
"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all." | Lydia | off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond | your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. | go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the | housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one | say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment, from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the | things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was." Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing." Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment, from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?" "No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject." "La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We | the breakfast room, to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet, as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy. Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand with an affectionate smile to Wickham, who followed his lady, and wished them both joy, with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness. Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations, and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there. Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself, to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. _She_ blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion, suffered no variation of colour. There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began enquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease, which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. "Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was." Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing." Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment, from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country. One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth, "Lizzy, I never gave _you_ an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma, and the others, all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?" "No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject." "La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid you know that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat." "Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but however the little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards, that if he _had_ been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well." "Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement. "Oh, yes!--he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!" "If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend | of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects, which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world. "Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was." Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing." Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining-parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman." It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment, from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Philips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham," by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to shew her ring and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids. "Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go." "Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"<|quote|>"Oh, lord! yes;--there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."</|quote|>"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother. "And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over." "I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands." Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight. No one but Mrs. Bennet, regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time, by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not. Wickham's affection for Lydia, was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion. Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the | Pride And Prejudice |
"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust." | Fannie Hamilton | stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that | now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' | how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat | to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a | to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm | 'll see you later, Kit," he said; "I ain't goin' just yet. Say," he added, when his sister was gone, "you 're a hot one. What do you want to give her all that con for? She 'll never get in." "Joe," said Hattie, "don't you get awful tired of being a jackass? Sometimes I want to kiss you, and sometimes I feel as if I had to kick you. I 'll compromise with you now by letting you bring me some more beer. This got all stale while your sister was here. I saw she did n't like it, and so I would n't drink any more for fear she 'd try to keep up with me." "Kit is a good deal of a jay yet," Joe remarked wisely. "Oh, yes, this world is full of jays. Lots of 'em have seen enough to make 'em wise, but they 're still jays, and don't know it. That 's the worst of it. They go around thinking they 're it, when they ain't even in the game. Go on and get the beer." And Joe went, feeling vaguely that he had been sat upon. Kit flew home with joyous heart to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now." Her mother dropped her head in her hands. "All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated | what I was going to say," the lady resumed after several contemplative puffs, "is that you 'll have to begin in the chorus any way and work your way up. It would n't take long for you, with your looks and voice, to put one of the 'up and ups' out o' the business. Only hope it won't be me. I 've had people I 've helped try to do it often enough." She gave a laugh that had just a touch of bitterness in it, for she began to recognise that although she had been on the stage only a short time, she was no longer the all-conquering Hattie Sterling, in the first freshness of her youth. "Oh, I would n't want to push anybody out," Kit expostulated. "Oh, never mind, you 'll soon get bravely over that feeling, and even if you did n't it would n't matter much. The thing has to happen. Somebody 's got to go down. We don't last long in this life: it soon wears us out, and when we 're worn out and sung out, danced out and played out, the manager has no further use for us; so he reduces us to the ranks or kicks us out entirely." Joe here thought it time for him to put in a word. "Get out, Hat," he said contemptuously; "you 're good for a dozen years yet." She did n't deign to notice him, save so far as a sniff goes. "Don't you let what I say scare you, though, Kitty. You 've got a good chance, and maybe you 'll have more sense than I 've got, and at least save money--while you 're in it. But let 's get off that. It makes me sick. All you 've got to do is to come to the opera-house to-morrow and I 'll introduce you to the manager. He 's a fool, but I think we can make him do something for you." "Oh, thank you, I 'll be around to-morrow, sure." "Better come about ten o'clock. There 's a rehearsal to-morrow, and you 'll find him there. Of course, he 'll be pretty rough, he always is at rehearsals, but he 'll take to you if he thinks there 's anything in you and he can get it out." Kitty felt herself dismissed and rose to go. Joe did not rise. "I 'll see you later, Kit," he said; "I ain't goin' just yet. Say," he added, when his sister was gone, "you 're a hot one. What do you want to give her all that con for? She 'll never get in." "Joe," said Hattie, "don't you get awful tired of being a jackass? Sometimes I want to kiss you, and sometimes I feel as if I had to kick you. I 'll compromise with you now by letting you bring me some more beer. This got all stale while your sister was here. I saw she did n't like it, and so I would n't drink any more for fear she 'd try to keep up with me." "Kit is a good deal of a jay yet," Joe remarked wisely. "Oh, yes, this world is full of jays. Lots of 'em have seen enough to make 'em wise, but they 're still jays, and don't know it. That 's the worst of it. They go around thinking they 're it, when they ain't even in the game. Go on and get the beer." And Joe went, feeling vaguely that he had been sat upon. Kit flew home with joyous heart to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the desired result. But the girl turned around from fixing her neck-ribbon before the glass, her face radiant. "Why, it 'll be splendid. He 's such a nice man, an' race-horse men 'most always have money. Why don't you marry him, ma? Then I 'd feel that you was safe an' settled, an' that you would n't be lonesome when the show was out of town." "You want me to ma'y him an' desert yo' po' pa?" "I guess what he says is right, ma. I don't reckon we 'll ever see pa again an' you got to do something. You got to live for yourself now." Her mother dropped her head in her hands. "All right," she said, "I 'll do it; I 'll ma'y him. I might as well go de way both my chillen 's gone. Po' Be'y, po' Be'y. Ef you evah do come out, Gawd he'p you to baih what you 'll fin'." And Mrs. Hamilton rose and tottered from the room, as if the old age she anticipated had already come upon her. Kit stood looking after her, fear and grief in her eyes. "Poor ma," she said, "an' poor pa. But I know, an' I know it 's for the best." On the next morning she was up early and practising hard for her interview with the managing star of "Martin's Blackbirds." When she arrived at the theatre, Hattie Sterling met her with frank friendliness. "I 'm glad you came early, Kitty," she remarked, "for maybe you can get a chance to talk with Martin before he begins rehearsal and gets all worked up. He 'll be a little less like a bear then. But even if you don't see him before then, wait, and don't get scared if he tries to bluff you. His bark is a good deal worse than his bite." When Mr. Martin came in that morning, he had other ideas than that of seeing applicants for places. His show must begin in two weeks, and it was advertised to be larger and better than ever before, when really nothing at all had been done for it. The promise of this advertisement must be fulfilled. Mr. Martin was late, and was out of humour with every one else on account of it. He came in hurried, fierce, and important. "Mornin', Mr. Smith, mornin', Mrs. Jones. Ha, ladies and gentlemen, all here?" He shot every word out of his mouth as if the after-taste of it were unpleasant to him. He walked among the chorus like an angry king among his vassals, and his glance was a flash of insolent fire. From his head to his feet he was the very epitome of self-sufficient, brutal conceit. Kitty trembled as she noted the hush that fell on the people at his entrance. She felt like rushing out of the room. She could never face this terrible man. She trembled more as she found his eyes fixed upon her. "Who 's that?" he asked, disregarding her, as if she had been a stick or a stone. "Well, don't snap her head off. It 's a girl friend of mine that wants a place," said Hattie. She was the only one who would brave Martin. "Humph. Let her wait. I ain't got no time to hear any one now. Get yourselves in line, you all who are on to that first chorus, while I 'm getting into | 're good for a dozen years yet." She did n't deign to notice him, save so far as a sniff goes. "Don't you let what I say scare you, though, Kitty. You 've got a good chance, and maybe you 'll have more sense than I 've got, and at least save money--while you 're in it. But let 's get off that. It makes me sick. All you 've got to do is to come to the opera-house to-morrow and I 'll introduce you to the manager. He 's a fool, but I think we can make him do something for you." "Oh, thank you, I 'll be around to-morrow, sure." "Better come about ten o'clock. There 's a rehearsal to-morrow, and you 'll find him there. Of course, he 'll be pretty rough, he always is at rehearsals, but he 'll take to you if he thinks there 's anything in you and he can get it out." Kitty felt herself dismissed and rose to go. Joe did not rise. "I 'll see you later, Kit," he said; "I ain't goin' just yet. Say," he added, when his sister was gone, "you 're a hot one. What do you want to give her all that con for? She 'll never get in." "Joe," said Hattie, "don't you get awful tired of being a jackass? Sometimes I want to kiss you, and sometimes I feel as if I had to kick you. I 'll compromise with you now by letting you bring me some more beer. This got all stale while your sister was here. I saw she did n't like it, and so I would n't drink any more for fear she 'd try to keep up with me." "Kit is a good deal of a jay yet," Joe remarked wisely. "Oh, yes, this world is full of jays. Lots of 'em have seen enough to make 'em wise, but they 're still jays, and don't know it. That 's the worst of it. They go around thinking they 're it, when they ain't even in the game. Go on and get the beer." And Joe went, feeling vaguely that he had been sat upon. Kit flew home with joyous heart to tell her mother of her good prospects. She burst into the room, crying, "Oh, ma, ma, Miss Hattie thinks I 'll do to go on the stage. Ain't it grand?" She did not meet with the expected warmth of response from her mother. "I do' know as it 'll be so gran'. F'om what I see of dem stage people dey don't seem to 'mount to much. De way dem gals shows demse'ves is right down bad to me. Is you goin' to dress lak dem we seen dat night?" Kit hung her head. "I guess I 'll have to." "Well, ef you have to, I 'd ruther see you daid any day. Oh, Kit, my little gal, don't do it, don't do it. Don't you go down lak yo' brothah Joe. Joe 's gone." "Why, ma, you don't understand. Joe 's somebody now. You ought to 've heard how Miss Hattie talked about him. She said he 's been her friend for a long while." "Her frien', yes, an' his own inimy. You need n' pattern aftah dat gal, Kit. She ruint Joe, an' she 's aftah you now." "But nowadays everybody thinks stage people respectable up here."<|quote|>"Maybe I 'm ol'-fashioned, but I can't believe in any ooman's ladyship when she shows herse'f lak dem gals does. Oh, Kit, don't do it. Ain't you seen enough? Don't you know enough already to stay away f'om dese hyeah people? Dey don't want nothin' but to pull you down an' den laugh at you w'en you 's dragged in de dust."</|quote|>"You must n't feel that away, ma. I 'm doin' it to help you." "I do' want no sich help. I 'd ruther starve." Kit did not reply, but there was no yielding in her manner. "Kit," her mother went on, "dey 's somep'n I ain't nevah tol' you dat I 'm goin' to tell you now. Mistah Gibson ust to come to Mis' Jones's lots to see me befo' we moved hyeah, an' he 's been talkin' 'bout a good many things to me." She hesitated. "He say dat I ain't noways ma'ied to my po' husban', dat a pen'tentiary sentence is de same as a divo'ce, an' if Be'y should live to git out, we 'd have to ma'y ag'in. I would n't min' dat, Kit, but he say dat at Be'y's age dey ain't much chanst of his livin' to git out, an' hyeah I 'll live all dis time alone, an' den have no one to tek keer o' me w'en I git ol'. He wants me to ma'y him, Kit. Kit, I love yo' fathah; he 's my only one. But Joe, he 's gone, an' ef yo go, befo' Gawd I 'll tell Tawm Gibson yes." The mother looked up to see just what effect her plea would have on her daughter. She hoped that what she said would have the | The Sport Of The Gods |
He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. | No speaker | immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early | understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among | she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; | of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my | is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she | as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the t?te-?-t?te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced | returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw, that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more. Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of fashion." The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners. The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the t?te-?-t?te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected. "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle. "There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, _I_ have seen nothing of it." "I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling." "To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham; or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so disagreeable?" Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning. "But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds." Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said nothing. "From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure, the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue." Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a | most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me." After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected--" "for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country."<|quote|>He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling.</|quote|>"They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters." Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was not very differently engaged. "There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?" The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her, must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her. They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind. He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the t?te-?-t?te was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house. The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected. "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle. "There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and | Pride And Prejudice |
replied his host, rising from his chair. | No speaker | thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I | time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said | he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps | him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of | to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the novel s fantastic hero. He never knew never, indeed, had any cause to know that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water | a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some medi val saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the novel s fantastic hero. He never knew never, indeed, had any cause to know that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued. For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall | flower or a shred of crumpled lace. He sighed, and having poured himself out some tea, opened Lord Henry s note. It was simply to say that he sent him round the evening paper, and a book that might interest him, and that he would be at the club at eight-fifteen. He opened _The St. James s_ languidly, and looked through it. A red pencil-mark on the fifth page caught his eye. It drew attention to the following paragraph: INQUEST ON AN ACTRESS. An inquest was held this morning at the Bell Tavern, Hoxton Road, by Mr. Danby, the District Coroner, on the body of Sibyl Vane, a young actress recently engaged at the Royal Theatre, Holborn. A verdict of death by misadventure was returned. Considerable sympathy was expressed for the mother of the deceased, who was greatly affected during the giving of her own evidence, and that of Dr. Birrell, who had made the post-mortem examination of the deceased. He frowned, and tearing the paper in two, went across the room and flung the pieces away. How ugly it all was! And how horribly real ugliness made things! He felt a little annoyed with Lord Henry for having sent him the report. And it was certainly stupid of him to have marked it with red pencil. Victor might have read it. The man knew more than enough English for that. Perhaps he had read it and had begun to suspect something. And, yet, what did it matter? What had Dorian Gray to do with Sibyl Vane s death? There was nothing to fear. Dorian Gray had not killed her. His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him. What was it, he wondered. He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves. After a few minutes he became absorbed. It was the strangest book that he had ever read. It seemed to him that in exquisite raiment, and to the delicate sound of flutes, the sins of the world were passing in dumb show before him. Things that he had dimly dreamed of were suddenly made real to him. Things of which he had never dreamed were gradually revealed. It was a novel without a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some medi val saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the novel s fantastic hero. He never knew never, indeed, had any cause to know that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued. For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual. Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous and terrible delight, the hideous lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs. There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them. Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful | a plot and with only one character, being, indeed, simply a psychological study of a certain young Parisian who spent his life trying to realize in the nineteenth century all the passions and modes of thought that belonged to every century except his own, and to sum up, as it were, in himself the various moods through which the world-spirit had ever passed, loving for their mere artificiality those renunciations that men have unwisely called virtue, as much as those natural rebellions that wise men still call sin. The style in which it was written was that curious jewelled style, vivid and obscure at once, full of _argot_ and of archaisms, of technical expressions and of elaborate paraphrases, that characterizes the work of some of the finest artists of the French school of _Symbolistes_. There were in it metaphors as monstrous as orchids and as subtle in colour. The life of the senses was described in the terms of mystical philosophy. One hardly knew at times whether one was reading the spiritual ecstasies of some medi val saint or the morbid confessions of a modern sinner. It was a poisonous book. The heavy odour of incense seemed to cling about its pages and to trouble the brain. The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows. Cloudless, and pierced by one solitary star, a copper-green sky gleamed through the windows. He read on by its wan light till he could read no more. Then, after his valet had reminded him several times of the lateness of the hour, he got up, and going into the next room, placed the book on the little Florentine table that always stood at his bedside and began to dress for dinner. It was almost nine o clock before he reached the club, where he found Lord Henry sitting alone, in the morning-room, looking very much bored. "I am so sorry, Harry," he cried, "but really it is entirely your fault. That book you sent me so fascinated me that I forgot how the time was going." "Yes, I thought you would like it,"<|quote|>replied his host, rising from his chair.</|quote|>"I didn t say I liked it, Harry. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference." "Ah, you have discovered that?" murmured Lord Henry. And they passed into the dining-room. CHAPTER XI. For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it. In one point he was more fortunate than the novel s fantastic hero. He never knew never, indeed, had any cause to know that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued. For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him and from time to time strange rumours about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter of the clubs could not believe anything to his dishonour when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked them. His mere presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence that they had tarnished. They wondered how one so charming and graceful as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid and sensual. Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that | The Picture Of Dorian Gray |
"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want." | Marianne | only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a | and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly | with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. | music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the | to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister s health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter s wishes and the mother s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor s arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. The sisters set out at | was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister s health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter s wishes and the mother s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor s arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said, "There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound, there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby." Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was said. "Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do." Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as _he_ is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not _always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving | influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel s behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter s wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_ measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings s united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks. The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford. The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister s health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter s wishes and the mother s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor s arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said, "There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound, there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby." Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was said. "Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do." Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as _he_ is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not _always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl" She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to" "How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?" "I would suppose him, Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle." Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. "I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them." "Do you compare your conduct with his?" "No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours." "Our situations have borne little resemblance." "They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with | no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret s return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.<|quote|>"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."</|quote|>Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister s health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter s wishes and the mother s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor s arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house. The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said, "There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound, there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby." Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was said. "Or will it be wrong? I _can_ talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do." Elinor tenderly invited her to be open. "As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as _he_ is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are _now_. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not _always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl" She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy." "Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to" "How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?" "I would suppose him, Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle." Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger | Sense And Sensibility |
"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat." | Fanny Price | long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in | your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to | anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, | was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, | trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you | him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home." "But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?" "No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again." Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business." "I am sure I do not know how it was to have been | know not if you want the mare," was her answer. "I do not want her at all for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only for pleasure; _you_ for health." "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well." Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home." "But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?" "No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again." Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business." "I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me it is not much above a quarter of a mile I cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?" "I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am." "If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her. But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves, Edmund," nodding significantly at his mother, "it was cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the mischief." "I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; "I am very much afraid she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me." Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table, on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made it easier to swallow than to speak. Vexed as Edmund was with his mother | him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert. Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding. "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa." Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house." "Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache." She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"<|quote|>"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."</|quote|>"Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour." "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again." "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?" "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait." "There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled." "She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time." "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches." Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear. "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home." "But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?" "No; but | Mansfield Park |
"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way." | Mr. James Harthouse | Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated | It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the | preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell | But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to | of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." | peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since." She was gone. "It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it | trust, than that I have been with her since she came home, and that she has given me her confidence. I have no further trust, than that I know something of her character and her marriage. O Mr. Harthouse, I think you had that trust too!" He was touched in the cavity where his heart should have been in that nest of addled eggs, where the birds of heaven would have lived if they had not been whistled away by the fervour of this reproach. "I am not a moral sort of fellow," he said, "and I never make any pretensions to the character of a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral as need be. At the same time, in bringing any distress upon the lady who is the subject of the present conversation, or in unfortunately compromising her in any way, or in committing myself by any expression of sentiments towards her, not perfectly reconcilable with in fact with the domestic hearth; or in taking any advantage of her father's being a machine, or of her brother's being a whelp, or of her husband's being a bear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that I have had no particularly evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I had not the slightest idea the catalogue was half so long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I find," said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, "that it is really in several volumes." Though he said all this in his frivolous way, the way seemed, for that once, a conscious polishing of but an ugly surface. He was silent for a moment; and then proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with traces of vexation and disappointment that would not be polished out. "After what has been just now represented to me, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt I know of hardly any other source from which I could have accepted it so readily I feel bound to say to you, in whom the confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (however unexpected) of my seeing the lady no more. I am solely to blame for the thing having come to this and and, I cannot say," he added, rather hard up for a general peroration, "that I have any sanguine expectation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, or ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same success. I must not only regard myself as being in a very ridiculous position, but as being vanquished at all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remembering my enemy's name?" "_My_ name?" said the ambassadress. "The only name I could possibly care to know, to-night." "Sissy Jupe." "Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the family?" "I am only a poor girl," returned Sissy. "I was separated from my father he was only a stroller and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind. I have lived in the house ever since." She was gone. "It wanted this to complete the defeat," said Mr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a little while. "The defeat may now be considered perfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl only a stroller only James Harthouse made nothing of only James Harthouse a Great Pyramid of failure." The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his brother: Dear Jack, All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place, and going in for camels. Affectionately, JEM. He rang the bell. "Send my fellow here." "Gone to bed, sir." "Tell him to get up, and pack up." He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr. Bounderby, announcing his retirement from that part of the country, and showing where he would be found for the next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tearing and glaring over the dark landscape. The moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr. James Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few actions that made any amends for anything, and as a token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a very bad business. But it was not so, at all. A secret sense of having failed and been ridiculous a dread of what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of things, would say at his expense if they knew it so oppressed him, that what was about the very best passage in his life was the one of all others he would not have owned to on any account, and the only one that made him ashamed of himself. CHAPTER III VERY DECIDED THE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her stately frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed in danger of dismemberment, gave chase to her patron until she found him in the metropolis; and there, majestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St. James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar. Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shake Mrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might through various stages of suffering on the floor. He next had recourse to the administration of potent restoratives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smiting her hands, abundantly watering her face, | of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever." Sissy's face sufficiently showed that her appeal to him was not finished. "You spoke," he resumed, as she raised her eyes to him again, "of your first object. I may assume that there is a second to be mentioned?" "Yes." "Will you oblige me by confiding it?" "Mr. Harthouse," returned Sissy, with a blending of gentleness and steadiness that quite defeated him, and with a simple confidence in his being bound to do what she required, that held him at a singular disadvantage, "the only reparation that remains with you, is to leave here immediately and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigate in no other way the wrong and harm you have done. I am quite sure that it is the only compensation you have left it in your power to make. I do not say that it is much, or that it is enough; but it is something, and it is necessary. Therefore, though without any other authority than I have given you, and even without the knowledge of any other person than yourself and myself, I ask you to depart from this place to-night, under an obligation never to return to it." If she had asserted any influence over him beyond her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said; if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or had harboured for the best purpose any reserve or pretence; if she had shown, or felt, the lightest trace of any sensitiveness to his ridicule or his astonishment, or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have carried it against her at this point. But he could as easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in surprise, as affect her. "But do you know," he asked, quite at a loss, "the extent of what you ask? You probably are not aware that I am here on a public kind of business, preposterous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in quite a desperate manner? You probably are not aware of that, but I assure you it's the fact." It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.<|quote|>"Besides which," said Mr. Harthouse, taking a turn or two across the room, dubiously, "it's so alarmingly absurd. It would make a man so ridiculous, after going in for these fellows, to back out in such an incomprehensible way."</|quote|>"I am quite sure," repeated Sissy, "that it is the only reparation in your power, sir. I am quite sure, or I would not have come here." He glanced at her face, and walked about again. "Upon my soul, I don't know what to say. So immensely absurd!" It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy. "If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing," he said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the chimney-piece, "it could only be in the most inviolable confidence." "I will trust to you, sir," returned Sissy, "and you will trust to me." His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if _he_ were the whelp to-night. He could make no way at all. "I suppose a man never was placed in a more ridiculous position," he said, after looking down, and looking up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off, and walking back again. "But I see no way out of it. What will be, will be. _This_ will be, I suppose. I must take off myself, I imagine in short, I engage to do it." Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly. "You will permit me to say," continued Mr. James Harthouse, "that I doubt if any other ambassador, | Hard Times |
"You must have some." | Robert Cohn | "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual | medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent | your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's | Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" | "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, | a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should | when the hotel was full. Montoya introduced me to some of them. They were always very polite at first, and it amused them very much that I should be an American. Somehow it was taken for granted that an American could not have aficion. He might simulate it or confuse it with excitement, but he could not really have it. When they saw that I had aficion, and there was no password, no set questions that could bring it out, rather it was a sort of oral spiritual examination with the questions always a little on the defensive and never apparent, there was this same embarrassed putting the hand on the shoulder, or a "Buen hombre." But nearly always there was the actual touching. It seemed as though they wanted to touch you to make it certain. Montoya could forgive anything of a bull-fighter who had aficion. He could forgive attacks of nerves, panic, bad unexplainable actions, all sorts of lapses. For one who had aficion he could forgive anything. At once he forgave me all my friends. Without his ever saying anything they were simply a little something shameful between us, like the spilling open of the horses in bull-fighting. Bill had gone up-stairs as we came in, and I found him washing and changing in his room. "Well," he said, "talk a lot of Spanish?" "He was telling me about the bulls coming in to-night." "Let's find the gang and go down." "All right. They'll probably be at the caf ." "Have you got tickets?" "Yes. I got them for all the unloadings." "What's it like?" He was pulling his cheek before the glass, looking to see if there were unshaved patches under the line of the jaw. "It's pretty good," I said. "They let the bulls out of the cages one at a time, and they have steers in the corral to receive them and keep them from fighting, and the bulls tear in at the steers and the steers run around like old maids trying to quiet them down." "Do they ever gore the steers?" "Sure. Sometimes they go right after them and kill them." "Can't the steers do anything?" "No. They're trying to make friends." "What do they have them in for?" "To quiet down the bulls and keep them from breaking horns against the stone walls, or goring each other." "Must be swell being a steer." We went down the stairs and out of the door and walked across the square toward the Caf Iru a. There were two lonely looking ticket-houses standing in the square. Their windows, marked SOL, SOL Y SOMBRA, and SOMBRA, were shut. They would not open until the day before the fiesta. Across the square the white wicker tables and chairs of the Iru a extended out beyond the Arcade to the edge of the street. I looked for Brett and Mike at the tables. There they were. Brett and Mike and Robert Cohn. Brett was wearing a Basque beret. So was Mike. Robert Cohn was bare-headed and wearing his spectacles. Brett saw us coming and waved. Her eyes crinkled up as we came up to the table. "Hello, you chaps!" she called. Brett was happy. Mike had a way of getting an intensity of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I couldn't stick it, so I left. Later on in the evening I found the box in my pocket. What's this? I said. Medals? Bloody military medals? So I cut them all off their backing--you know, they put them on a strip--and gave them all around. Gave one to each girl. Form of souvenir. They thought I was hell's own shakes of a soldier. Give away medals in a night club. Dashing fellow." "Tell the rest," Brett said. "Don't you think that was funny?" Mike asked. We were all laughing. "It was. I swear it was. Any rate, my tailor wrote me and wanted the medals back. Sent a man around. Kept on writing for months. Seems some chap had left them to be cleaned. Frightfully military cove. Set hell's own store by them." Mike paused. "Rotten luck for the tailor," he said. "You don't mean it," Bill said. "I should think it would have been grand for the tailor." "Frightfully good tailor. Never believe it to see me now," Mike said. "I used to pay him a hundred pounds a year just to keep him quiet. So he wouldn't send me any bills. Frightful blow to him when I went bankrupt. It was right after the medals. Gave his letters rather a bitter tone." "How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. "Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly." "What brought it on?" "Friends," said Mike. "I had a lot of friends. False friends. Then I had creditors, too. Probably had more creditors than anybody in England." "Tell them about in the court," Brett said. "I don't remember," Mike said. "I was just a little tight." "Tight!" Brett exclaimed. "You were blind!" "Extraordinary thing," Mike said. "Met my former partner the other day. Offered to buy me a drink." "Tell them about your learned counsel," Brett said. "I will not," Mike said. "My learned counsel was blind, too. I say this is a gloomy subject. Are we going down and see these bulls unloaded or not?" "Let's go down." We called the waiter, paid, and started to walk through the town. I started off walking with Brett, but Robert Cohn came up and joined her on the other side. The three of us walked along, past the Ayuntamiento with the banners hung from the balcony, down past the market and down past the steep street that led to the bridge across the Arga. There were many people walking to go and see the bulls, and carriages drove down the hill and across the bridge, the drivers, the horses, and the whips rising above the walking people in the street. Across the bridge we turned up a road to the corrals. We passed a wine-shop with a sign in the window: Good Wine 30 Centimes A Liter. "That's where we'll go when funds get low," Brett said. The woman standing in the door of the wine-shop looked at us as we passed. She called to some one in the house and three girls came to the window and stared. They were staring at Brett. At the gate of the corrals two men took tickets from the people that went in. We went in through the gate. There were trees inside and a low, stone house. At the far end was the | of feeling into shaking hands. Robert Cohn shook hands because we were back. "Where the hell have you been?" I asked. "I brought them up here," Cohn said. "What rot," Brett said. "We'd have gotten here earlier if you hadn't come." "You'd never have gotten here." "What rot! You chaps are brown. Look at Bill." "Did you get good fishing?" Mike asked. "We wanted to join you." "It wasn't bad. We missed you." "I wanted to come," Cohn said, "but I thought I ought to bring them." "You bring us. What rot." "Was it really good?" Mike asked. "Did you take many?" "Some days we took a dozen apiece. There was an Englishman up there." "Named Harris," Bill said. "Ever know him, Mike? He was in the war, too." "Fortunate fellow," Mike said. "What times we had. How I wish those dear days were back." "Don't be an ass." "Were you in the war, Mike?" Cohn asked. "Was I not." "He was a very distinguished soldier," Brett said. "Tell them about the time your horse bolted down Piccadilly." "I'll not. I've told that four times." "You never told me," Robert Cohn said. "I'll not tell that story. It reflects discredit on me." "Tell them about your medals." "I'll not. That story reflects great discredit on me." "What story's that?" "Brett will tell you. She tells all the stories that reflect discredit on me." "Go on. Tell it, Brett." "Should I?" "I'll tell it myself." "What medals have you got, Mike?" "I haven't got any medals."<|quote|>"You must have some."</|quote|>"I suppose I've the usual medals. But I never sent in for them. One time there was this wopping big dinner and the Prince of Wales was to be there, and the cards said medals will be worn. So naturally I had no medals, and I stopped at my tailor's and he was impressed by the invitation, and I thought that's a good piece of business, and I said to him:" 'You've got to fix me up with some medals.' "He said:" 'What medals, sir?' "And I said:" 'Oh, any medals. Just give me a few medals.' "So he said:" 'What medals _have_ you, sir?' "And I said:" 'How should I know?' "Did he think I spent all my time reading the bloody gazette?" 'Just give me a good lot. Pick them out yourself.' "So he got me some medals, you know, miniature medals, and handed me the box, and I put it in my pocket and forgot it. Well, I went to the dinner, and it was the night they'd shot Henry Wilson, so the Prince didn't come and the King didn't come, and no one wore any medals, and all these coves were busy taking off their medals, and I had mine in my pocket." He stopped for us to laugh. "Is that all?" "That's all. Perhaps I didn't tell it right." "You didn't," said Brett. "But no matter." We were all laughing. "Ah, yes," said Mike. "I know now. It was a damn dull dinner, and I | The Sun Also Rises |
"I think it is," | Ralph Denham | her eyes with her hand.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>he returned abruptly. "But only | bad thing?" she asked, shading her eyes with her hand.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>he returned abruptly. "But only a week ago you were | 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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 | 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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 | into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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 | straight at her, as if she were only an illustration of the argument that was going forward in his mind. In this spirit he noticed the rather set expression in her eyes, and the slight, half-conscious movement of her lips, which, together with her height and the distinction of her dress, made her look as if the scurrying crowd impeded her, and her direction were different from theirs. He noticed this calmly; but suddenly, as he passed her, his hands and knees began to tremble, and his heart beat painfully. She did not see him, and went on repeating to herself some lines which had stuck to her memory: "It s life that matters, nothing but life the process of discovering the everlasting and perpetual process, not the discovery itself at all." Thus occupied, she did not see Denham, and he had not the courage to stop her. But immediately the whole scene in the Strand wore that curious look of order and purpose which is imparted to the most heterogeneous things when music sounds; and so pleasant was this impression that he was very glad that he had not stopped her, after all. It grew slowly fainter, but lasted until he stood outside the barrister s chambers. When his interview with the barrister was over, it was too late to go back to the office. His sight of Katharine had put him queerly out of tune for a domestic evening. Where should he go? To walk through the streets of London until he came to Katharine s house, to look up at the windows and fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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." "I don t know exactly what I mean to do," 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 | fancy her within, seemed to him possible for a moment; and then he rejected the plan almost with a blush as, with a curious division of consciousness, one plucks a flower sentimentally and throws it away, with a blush, when it is actually picked. No, he would go and see Mary Datchet. By this time she would be back from her work. To see Ralph appear unexpectedly in her room threw Mary for a second off her balance. She had been cleaning knives in her little scullery, and when she had let him in she went back again, and turned on the cold-water tap to its fullest volume, and then turned it off again. "Now," she thought to herself, as she screwed it tight, "I m not going to let these silly ideas come into my head...." "Don t you think Mr. Asquith deserves to be hanged?" she called back into the sitting-room, and when she joined him, drying her hands, she began to tell him about the latest evasion on the part of the Government with respect to the Women s Suffrage Bill. Ralph did not want to talk about politics, but he could not help respecting Mary for taking such an interest in public questions. He looked at her as she leant forward, poking the fire, and expressing herself very clearly in phrases which bore distantly the taint of the platform, and he thought, "How absurd Mary would think me if she knew that I almost made up my mind to walk all the way to Chelsea in order to look at Katharine s windows. She wouldn t understand it, but I like her very much as she is." For some time they discussed what the women had better do; and as Ralph became genuinely interested in the question, Mary unconsciously let her attention wander, and a great 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.<|quote|>"I think it is,"</|quote|>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 | Night And Day |
"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances." | Ralph Denham | only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had | thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly | He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, | But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he | papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book." "How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, | was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book." "How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon " She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s | forced to deny herself any contemplation of that other part of life where thought constructs a destiny which is independent of human beings. As Denham spoke, she followed his words and considered their bearing with an easy vigor which spoke of a capacity long hoarded and unspent. The very trees and the green merging into the blue distance became symbols of the vast external world which recks so little of the happiness, of the marriages or deaths of individuals. In order to give her examples of what he was saying, Denham led the way, first to the Rock Garden, and then to the Orchid House. For him there was safety in the direction which the talk had taken. His emphasis might come from feelings more personal than those science roused in him, but it was disguised, and naturally he found it easy to expound and explain. Nevertheless, when he saw Katharine among the orchids, her beauty strangely emphasized by the fantastic plants, which seemed to peer and gape at her from striped hoods and fleshy throats, his ardor for botany waned, and a more complex feeling replaced it. She fell silent. The orchids seemed to suggest absorbing reflections. In defiance of the rules she stretched her ungloved hand and touched one. The sight of the rubies upon her finger affected him so disagreeably that he started and turned away. But next moment he controlled himself; he looked at her taking in one strange shape after another with the contemplative, considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is before him, but gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far-away look entirely lacked self-consciousness. Denham doubted whether she remembered his presence. He could recall himself, of course, by a word or a movement but why? She was happier thus. She needed nothing that he could give her. And for him, too, perhaps, it was best to keep aloof, only to know that she existed, to preserve what he already had perfect, remote, and unbroken. Further, her still look, standing among the orchids in that hot atmosphere, strangely illustrated some scene that he had imagined in his room at home. The sight, mingling with his recollection, kept him silent when the door was shut and they were walking on again. But though she did not speak, Katharine had an uneasy sense that silence on her part was selfishness. It was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book." "How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon " She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge of obliterating his real character. He was awkwardly silent; he was awkwardly emphatic. And yet she liked him. "I don t mean what I say," she repeated good-humoredly. "Well ?" "I doubt whether you make absolute sincerity your standard in life," he answered significantly. She flushed. He had penetrated at once to the weak spot her engagement, and had reason for what he said. He was not altogether justified now, at any rate, she was glad to remember; but she could not enlighten him and must bear his insinuations, though from the lips of a man who had behaved as he had behaved their force should not have been sharp. Nevertheless, what he said had its force, she mused; partly because he seemed unconscious of his own lapse in the case of Mary Datchet, and thus baffled her insight; partly because he always spoke with force, for what reason she did not yet feel certain. "Absolute sincerity is rather difficult, don t you think?" she inquired, with a touch of irony. "There are people one credits even with that," he replied a little vaguely. He was ashamed of his savage wish to hurt her, and yet it was not for the sake of hurting her, who was beyond his shafts, but in order to mortify his own incredibly reckless impulse of abandonment to the spirit which seemed, at moments, about to rush him to the uttermost ends of the earth. She affected him beyond the scope of his wildest dreams. He seemed to see that beneath the quiet surface of her manner, which was almost pathetically at hand and within | at her taking in one strange shape after another with the contemplative, considering gaze of a person who sees not exactly what is before him, but gropes in regions that lie beyond it. The far-away look entirely lacked self-consciousness. Denham doubted whether she remembered his presence. He could recall himself, of course, by a word or a movement but why? She was happier thus. She needed nothing that he could give her. And for him, too, perhaps, it was best to keep aloof, only to know that she existed, to preserve what he already had perfect, remote, and unbroken. Further, her still look, standing among the orchids in that hot atmosphere, strangely illustrated some scene that he had imagined in his room at home. The sight, mingling with his recollection, kept him silent when the door was shut and they were walking on again. But though she did not speak, Katharine had an uneasy sense that silence on her part was selfishness. It was selfish of her to continue, as she wished to do, a discussion of subjects not remotely connected with any human beings. She roused herself to consider their exact position upon the turbulent map of the emotions. Oh yes it was a question whether Ralph Denham should live in the country and write a book; it was getting late; they must waste no more time; Cassandra arrived to-night for dinner; she flinched and roused herself, and discovered that she ought to be holding something in her hands. But they were empty. She held them out with an exclamation. "I ve left my bag somewhere where?" The gardens had no points of the compass, so far as she was concerned. She had been walking for the most part on grass that was all she knew. Even the road to the Orchid House had now split itself into three. But there was no bag in the Orchid House. It must, therefore, have been left upon the seat. They retraced their steps in the preoccupied manner of people who have to think about something that is lost. What did this bag look like? What did it contain? "A purse a ticket some letters, papers," Katharine counted, becoming more agitated as she recalled the list. Denham went on quickly in advance of her, and she heard him shout that he had found it before she reached the seat. In order to make sure that all was safe she spread the contents on her knee. It was a queer collection, Denham thought, gazing with the deepest interest. Loose gold coins were tangled in a narrow strip of lace; there were letters which somehow suggested the extreme of intimacy; there were two or three keys, and lists of commissions against which crosses were set at intervals. But she did not seem satisfied until she had made sure of a certain paper so folded that Denham could not judge what it contained. In her relief and gratitude she began at once to say that she had been thinking over what Denham had told her of his plans. He cut her short. "Don t let s discuss that dreary business." "But I thought" "It s a dreary business. I ought never to have bothered you" "Have you decided, then?" He made an impatient sound. "It s not a thing that matters." She could only say rather flatly, "Oh!"<|quote|>"I mean it matters to me, but it matters to no one else. Anyhow," he continued, more amiably, "I see no reason why you should be bothered with other people s nuisances."</|quote|>She supposed that she had let him see too clearly her weariness of this side of life. "I m afraid I ve been absent-minded," she began, remembering how often William had brought this charge against her. "You have a good deal to make you absent-minded," he replied. "Yes," she replied, flushing. "No," she contradicted herself. "Nothing particular, I mean. But I was thinking about plants. I was enjoying myself. In fact, I ve seldom enjoyed an afternoon more. But I want to hear what you ve settled, if you don t mind telling me." "Oh, it s all settled," he replied. "I m going to this infernal cottage to write a worthless book." "How I envy you," she replied, with the utmost sincerity. "Well, cottages are to be had for fifteen shillings a week." "Cottages are to be had yes," she replied. "The question is" She checked herself. "Two rooms are all I should want," she continued, with a curious sigh; "one for eating, one for sleeping. Oh, but I should like another, a large one at the top, and a little garden where one could grow flowers. A path so down to a river, or up to a wood, and the sea not very far off, so that one could hear the waves at night. Ships just vanishing on the horizon " She broke off. "Shall you be near the sea?" "My notion of perfect happiness," he began, not replying to her question, "is to live as you ve said." "Well, now you can. You will work, I suppose," she continued; "you ll work all the morning and again after tea and perhaps at night. You won t have people always coming about you to interrupt." "How far can one live alone?" he asked. "Have you tried ever?" "Once for three weeks," she replied. "My father and mother were in Italy, and something happened so that I couldn t join them. For three weeks I lived entirely by myself, and the only person I spoke to was a stranger in a shop where I lunched a man with a beard. Then I went back to my room by myself and well, I did what I liked. It doesn t make me out an amiable character, I m afraid," she added, "but I can t endure living with other people. An occasional man with a beard is interesting; he s detached; he lets me go my way, and we know we shall never meet again. Therefore, we are perfectly sincere a thing not possible with one s friends." "Nonsense," Denham replied abruptly. "Why nonsense ?" she inquired. "Because you don t mean what you say," he expostulated. "You re very positive," she said, laughing and looking at him. How arbitrary, hot-tempered, and imperious he was! He had asked her to come to Kew to advise him; he then told her that he had settled the question already; he then proceeded to find fault with her. He was the very opposite of William Rodney, she thought; he was shabby, his clothes were badly made, he was ill versed in the amenities of life; he was tongue-tied and awkward to the verge | Night And Day |
Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed. | No speaker | devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened | "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. | Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the | "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his | one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward | me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss." He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." | them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull's bare garret it was full of light. Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak. The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was the French Revolution. There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning. Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre. Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away. The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism. His position gave him a somewhat new appearance. The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death's-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he. He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table. The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, "I'm sorry to disturb you so early, comrade," said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. "You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?" Then he added with infinite slowness, "We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment's delay." Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word "Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss." He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor's smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor's makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected "Dr. Bull!" The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme. "Dr. Bull," said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, "would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?" The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move. For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles. Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking. The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene. The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby. "I knew I was a poet," cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. "I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones." "It certainly does make a queer difference," said the Professor shakily. "But as regards the project of Dr. Bull" "Project be damned!" roared Syme, beside | woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor's complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence. "As I say," resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, "the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me" His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, "You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!"<|quote|>Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.</|quote|>"Yes, the thing really happened to me," he said hastily. "I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France." "So unless you or I can get on his track" The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm. "Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that" All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, "I have an intuition." The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, "Then sit on it." Syme telegraphed, "It is quite extraordinary." The other answered, "Extraordinary rot!" Syme said, "I am a poet." The other retorted, "You are a dead man." Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, "You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring." He then studied the answer on his friend's fingers. The answer was, "Go to hell!" The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor. "Perhaps I should rather say," said Syme on his fingers, "that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods." His companion disdained to reply. "Or yet again," tapped Syme, "it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman." The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected "Dr. Bull!" The Doctor's sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme. "Dr. Bull," said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and | The Man Who Was Thursday |
"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?" | Dr. Panna Lal | Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. | Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear | some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now | a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should | "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," | driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our | anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. Aziz it left thinking about women again, but in a different way: less definite, more intense. Sometimes poetry had this effect on him, sometimes it only increased his local desires, and he never knew beforehand which effect would ensue: he could discover no rule for this or for anything else in life. Hamidullah had called in on his way to a worrying committee of notables, nationalist in tendency, where Hindus, Moslems, two Sikhs, two Parsis, a Jain, and a Native Christian tried to like one another more than came natural to them. As long as someone abused the English, all went well, but nothing constructive had been achieved, and if the English were to leave India, the committee would vanish also. He was glad that Aziz, whom he loved and whose family was connected with his own, took no interest in politics, which ruin the character and career, yet nothing can be achieved without them. He thought of Cambridge sadly, as of another poem that had ended. How happy he had been there, twenty years ago! Politics had not mattered in Mr. and Mrs. Bannister's rectory. There, games, work, and pleasant society had interwoven, and appeared to be sufficient substructure for a national life. Here all was wire-pulling and fear. Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq he couldn't even trust them, although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure I don't tire you by stopping?" "Why, no! There are six people present in my small room already. Please remain seated, if you will excuse the informality." He turned away and continued to address Rafi, who was terrified at the arrival of his Principal, remembered that he had tried to spread slander about him, and yearned to get away. "He is ill and he is not ill," said Hamidullah, offering a cigarette. "And I suppose that most of us are in that same case." Fielding agreed; he and the pleasant sensitive barrister got on well. They were fairly intimate and beginning to trust each other. "The whole world looks to be dying, still it doesn't die, so we must assume the existence of a beneficent Providence." "Oh, that is true, how true!" said the policeman, thinking religion had been praised. "Does Mr. Fielding think it's true?." "Think which true? The world isn't dying. I'm certain of that!" "No, no the existence of Providence." "Well, I don't believe in Providence." "But how then can you believe in God?" asked Syed Mohammed. "I don't believe in God." A tiny movement as of "I told you so!" passed round the company, and Aziz looked up for an instant, scandalized. "Is it correct that most are atheists in England now?" Hamidullah enquired. "The educated thoughtful people? I should say so, though they don't like the name. The truth is that the West doesn't bother much over belief and disbelief in these days. Fifty years ago, or even when you and I were young, much more fuss was made." "And does not morality also decline?" "It depends what you call yes, yes, I suppose morality does decline." "Excuse the question, but if | although they had come in his carriage, and the schoolboy was a scorpion. Bending down, he said, "Aziz, Aziz, my dear boy, we must be going, we are already late. Get well quickly, for I do not know what our little circle would do without you." "I shall not forget those affectionate words," replied Aziz. "Add mine to them," said the engineer. "Thank you, Mr. Syed Mohammed, I will." "And mine," "And, sir, accept mine," cried the others, stirred each according to his capacity towards goodwill. Little ineffectual unquenchable flames! The company continued to sit on the bed and to chew sugarcane, which Hassan had run for into the bazaar, and Aziz drank a cup of spiced milk. Presently there was the sound of another carriage. Dr. Panna Lal had arrived, driven by horrid Mr. Ram Chand. The atmosphere of a sick-room was at once re-established, and the invalid retired under his quilt. "Gentlemen, you will excuse, I have come to enquire by Major Callendar's orders," said the Hindu, nervous of the den of fanatics into which his curiosity had called him. "Here he lies," said Hamidullah, indicating the prostrate form. "Dr. Aziz, Dr, Aziz, I come to enquire." Aziz presented an expressionless face to the thermometer. "Your hand also, please." He took it, gazed at the flies on the ceiling, and finally announced "Some temperature." "I think not much," said Ram Chand, desirous of fomenting trouble. "Some; he should remain in bed," repeated Dr. Panna Lal, and shook the thermometer down, so that its altitude remained for ever unknown. He loathed his young colleague since the disasters with Dapple, and he would have liked to do him a bad turn and report to Major Callendar that he was shamming. But he might want a day in bed himself soon, besides, though Major Callendar always believed the worst of natives, he never believed them when they carried tales about one another. Sympathy seemed the safer course. "How is stomach?" he enquired, "how head?" And catching sight of the empty cup, he recommended a milk diet. "This is a great relief to us, it is very good of you to call, Doctor Sahib," Said Hamidullah, buttering him up a bit. "It is only my duty." "We know how busy you are." "Yes, that is true." "And how much illness there is in the city." The doctor suspected a trap in this remark; if he admitted that there was or was not illness, either statement might be used against him. "There is always illness," he replied, "and I am always busy it is a doctor's nature." "He has not a minute, he is due double sharp at Government College now," said Ram Chand. "You attend Professor Godbole there perhaps?" The doctor looked professional and was silent. "We hope his diarrh a is ceasing." "He progresses, but not from diarrh a." "We are in some anxiety over him he and Dr. Aziz are great friends. If you could tell us the name of his complaint we should be grateful to you." After a cautious pause he said, "H morrhoids." "And so much, my dear Rafi, for your cholera," hooted Aziz, unable to restrain himself.<|quote|>"Cholera, cholera, what next, what now?" cried the doctor, greatly fussed. "Who spreads such untrue reports about my patients?"</|quote|>Hamidullah pointed to the culprit. "I hear cholera, I hear bubonic plague, I hear every species of lie. Where will it end, I ask myself sometimes. This city is full of misstatements, and the originators of them ought to be discovered and punished authoritatively." "Rafi, do you hear that? Now why do you stuff us up with all this humbug?" The schoolboy murmured that another boy had told him, also that the bad English grammar the Government obliged them to use often gave the wrong meaning for words, and so led scholars into mistakes. "That is no reason you should bring a charge against a doctor," said Ram Chand. "Exactly, exactly," agreed Hamidullah, anxious to avoid an unpleasantness. Quarrels spread so quickly and so far, and Messrs. Syed Mohammed and Haq looked cross, and ready to fly out. "You must apologize properly, Rafi, I can see your uncle wishes it," he said. "You have not yet said that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused this gentleman by your carelessness." "It is only a boy," said Dr. Panna Lal, appeased. "Even boys must learn," said Ram Chand. "Your own son failing to pass the lowest standard, I think," said Syed Mohammed suddenly. "Oh, indeed? Oh yes, perhaps. He has not the advantage of a relative in the Prosperity Printing Press." "Nor you the advantage of conducting their cases in the Courts any longer." Their voices rose. They attacked one another with obscure allusions and had a silly quarrel. Hamidullah and the doctor tried to make peace between them. In the midst of the din someone said, "I say! Is he ill or isn't he ill?" Mr. Fielding had entered unobserved. All rose to their feet, and Hassan, to do an Englishman honour, struck with a sugar-cane at the coil of flies. Aziz said, "Sit down," coldly. What a room! What a meeting! Squalor and ugly talk, the floor strewn with fragments of cane and nuts, and spotted with ink, the pictures crooked upon the dirty walls, no punkah! He hadn't meant to live like this or among these third-rate people. And in his confusion he thought only of the insignificant Rafi, whom he had laughed at, and allowed to be teased. The boy must be sent away happy, or hospitality would have failed, along the whole line. "It is good of Mr. Fielding to condescend to visit our friend," said the police inspector. "We are touched by this great kindness." "Don't talk to him like that, he doesn't want it, and he doesn't want three chairs; he's not three Englishmen," he flashed. "Rafi, come here. Sit down again. I'm delighted you could come with Mr. Hamidullah, my dear boy; it will help me to recover, seeing you." "Forgive my mistakes," said Rafi, to consolidate himself. "Well, are you ill, Aziz, or aren't you?" Fielding repeated. "No doubt Major Callendar has told you that I am shamming." "Well, are you?" The company laughed, friendly and pleased. "An Englishman at his best," they thought; "so genial." "Enquire from Dr. Panna Lal." "You're sure | A Passage To India |
he said to Mrs. Costello. | No speaker | may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey | at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep | than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to | have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and | courier stayed at home." "She went with you all alone?" "All alone." Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom you wanted me to know!" PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He | began to think he had been wrong to feel disappointed in the temper in which the young lady had embarked. If he had missed the personal accent, the personal accent was now making its appearance. It sounded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she would stop "teasing" him if he would promise her solemnly to come down to Rome in the winter. "That s not a difficult promise to make," said Winterbourne. "My aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has already asked me to come and see her." "I don t want you to come for your aunt," said Daisy; "I want you to come for me." And this was the only allusion that the young man was ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswoman. He declared that, at any rate, he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterbourne took a carriage, and they drove back to Vevey in the dusk; the young girl was very quiet. In the evening Winterbourne mentioned to Mrs. Costello that he had spent the afternoon at Chillon with Miss Daisy Miller. "The Americans--of the courier?" asked this lady. "Ah, happily," said Winterbourne, "the courier stayed at home." "She went with you all alone?" "All alone." Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom you wanted me to know!" PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister | that nothing could possibly please him so much, but that he had unfortunately other occupations. "Other occupations? I don t believe it!" said Miss Daisy. "What do you mean? You are not in business." The young man admitted that he was not in business; but he had engagements which, even within a day or two, would force him to go back to Geneva. "Oh, bother!" she said; "I don t believe it!" and she began to talk about something else. But a few moments later, when he was pointing out to her the pretty design of an antique fireplace, she broke out irrelevantly, "You don t mean to say you are going back to Geneva?" "It is a melancholy fact that I shall have to return to Geneva tomorrow." "Well, Mr. Winterbourne," said Daisy, "I think you re horrid!" "Oh, don t say such dreadful things!" said Winterbourne--"just at the last!" "The last!" cried the young girl; "I call it the first. I have half a mind to leave you here and go straight back to the hotel alone." And for the next ten minutes she did nothing but call him horrid. Poor Winterbourne was fairly bewildered; no young lady had as yet done him the honor to be so agitated by the announcement of his movements. His companion, after this, ceased to pay any attention to the curiosities of Chillon or the beauties of the lake; she opened fire upon the mysterious charmer in Geneva whom she appeared to have instantly taken it for granted that he was hurrying back to see. How did Miss Daisy Miller know that there was a charmer in Geneva? Winterbourne, who denied the existence of such a person, was quite unable to discover, and he was divided between amazement at the rapidity of her induction and amusement at the frankness of her persiflage. She seemed to him, in all this, an extraordinary mixture of innocence and crudity. "Does she never allow you more than three days at a time?" asked Daisy ironically. "Doesn t she give you a vacation in summer? There s no one so hard worked but they can get leave to go off somewhere at this season. I suppose, if you stay another day, she ll come after you in the boat. Do wait over till Friday, and I will go down to the landing to see her arrive!" Winterbourne began to think he had been wrong to feel disappointed in the temper in which the young lady had embarked. If he had missed the personal accent, the personal accent was now making its appearance. It sounded very distinctly, at last, in her telling him she would stop "teasing" him if he would promise her solemnly to come down to Rome in the winter. "That s not a difficult promise to make," said Winterbourne. "My aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has already asked me to come and see her." "I don t want you to come for your aunt," said Daisy; "I want you to come for me." And this was the only allusion that the young man was ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswoman. He declared that, at any rate, he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterbourne took a carriage, and they drove back to Vevey in the dusk; the young girl was very quiet. In the evening Winterbourne mentioned to Mrs. Costello that he had spent the afternoon at Chillon with Miss Daisy Miller. "The Americans--of the courier?" asked this lady. "Ah, happily," said Winterbourne, "the courier stayed at home." "She went with you all alone?" "All alone." Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom you wanted me to know!" PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third floor; the room was filled with southern sunshine. He had not been there ten minutes when the servant came in, announcing "Madame Mila!" This announcement was presently followed by the entrance of little Randolph Miller, who stopped in the middle of the room and stood staring at Winterbourne. An instant later his pretty sister crossed the threshold; and then, after a considerable interval, Mrs. Miller slowly advanced. "I know you!" said Randolph. "I m sure you know a great many things," exclaimed Winterbourne, taking him by the hand. "How is your education coming on?" Daisy was exchanging greetings very prettily with her hostess, but when she heard Winterbourne s voice she quickly turned her head. "Well, I declare!" she said. "I told you I should come, you know," Winterbourne rejoined, smiling. "Well, I didn t believe it," said Miss Daisy. "I am much obliged to you," laughed the young man. "You might have come to see me!" said Daisy. "I arrived only yesterday." "I don t believe that!" the young girl declared. Winterbourne turned with a protesting smile to her mother, but this lady evaded his glance, and, seating herself, fixed her eyes upon her son. "We ve got a bigger place than this," said Randolph. "It s all gold on the walls." Mrs. Miller turned uneasily in her chair. "I told you if I were to bring you, you would say something!" she murmured. "I told YOU!" Randolph exclaimed. "I tell YOU, sir!" he added jocosely, giving Winterbourne a thump on the knee. "It IS bigger, too!" Daisy had entered upon a lively conversation with her hostess; Winterbourne judged it becoming to address a few words to her mother. "I hope you have been well since we parted at Vevey," he said. Mrs. Miller now certainly looked at him--at his chin. "Not very well, sir," she answered. "She s got the dyspepsia," said Randolph. "I ve got it too. Father s got it. I ve got it most!" This announcement, instead of embarrassing Mrs. Miller, seemed to relieve her. "I suffer from the liver," she said. "I think it s this climate; it s less bracing than Schenectady, especially in the winter season. I don t know whether you know we reside at Schenectady. I was saying to Daisy that I certainly hadn t found any one like Dr. Davis, and I didn t believe I should. Oh, at Schenectady he stands first; they think everything of him. He has so much to do, and yet there was nothing he wouldn t do for me. He said he never saw anything like my dyspepsia, but he was bound to cure it. I m sure there was nothing he wouldn t try. He was | solemnly to come down to Rome in the winter. "That s not a difficult promise to make," said Winterbourne. "My aunt has taken an apartment in Rome for the winter and has already asked me to come and see her." "I don t want you to come for your aunt," said Daisy; "I want you to come for me." And this was the only allusion that the young man was ever to hear her make to his invidious kinswoman. He declared that, at any rate, he would certainly come. After this Daisy stopped teasing. Winterbourne took a carriage, and they drove back to Vevey in the dusk; the young girl was very quiet. In the evening Winterbourne mentioned to Mrs. Costello that he had spent the afternoon at Chillon with Miss Daisy Miller. "The Americans--of the courier?" asked this lady. "Ah, happily," said Winterbourne, "the courier stayed at home." "She went with you all alone?" "All alone." Mrs. Costello sniffed a little at her smelling bottle. "And that," she exclaimed, "is the young person whom you wanted me to know!" PART II Winterbourne, who had returned to Geneva the day after his excursion to Chillon, went to Rome toward the end of January. His aunt had been established there for several weeks, and he had received a couple of letters from her. "Those people you were so devoted to last summer at Vevey have turned up here, courier and all," she wrote. "They seem to have made several acquaintances, but the courier continues to be the most intime. The young lady, however, is also very intimate with some third-rate Italians, with whom she rackets about in a way that makes much talk. Bring me that pretty novel of Cherbuliez s--Paule Mere--and don t come later than the 23rd." In the natural course of events, Winterbourne, on arriving in Rome, would presently have ascertained Mrs. Miller s address at the American banker s and have gone to pay his compliments to Miss Daisy. "After what happened at Vevey, I think I may certainly call upon them,"<|quote|>he said to Mrs. Costello.</|quote|>"If, after what happens--at Vevey and everywhere--you desire to keep up the acquaintance, you are very welcome. Of course a man may know everyone. Men are welcome to the privilege!" "Pray what is it that happens--here, for instance?" Winterbourne demanded. "The girl goes about alone with her foreigners. As to what happens further, you must apply elsewhere for information. She has picked up half a dozen of the regular Roman fortune hunters, and she takes them about to people s houses. When she comes to a party she brings with her a gentleman with a good deal of manner and a wonderful mustache." "And where is the mother?" "I haven t the least idea. They are very dreadful people." Winterbourne meditated a moment. "They are very ignorant--very innocent only. Depend upon it they are not bad." "They are hopelessly vulgar," said Mrs. Costello. "Whether or no being hopelessly vulgar is being bad is a question for the metaphysicians. They are bad enough to dislike, at any rate; and for this short life that is quite enough." The news that Daisy Miller was surrounded by half a dozen wonderful mustaches checked Winterbourne s impulse to go straightway to see her. He had, perhaps, not definitely flattered himself that he had made an ineffaceable impression upon her heart, but he was annoyed at hearing of a state of affairs so little in harmony with an image that had lately flitted in and out of his own meditations; the image of a very pretty girl looking out of an old Roman window and asking herself urgently when Mr. Winterbourne would arrive. If, however, he determined to wait a little before reminding Miss Miller of his claims to her consideration, he went very soon to call upon two or three other friends. One of these friends was an American lady who had spent several winters at Geneva, where she had placed her children at school. She was a very accomplished woman, and she lived in the Via Gregoriana. Winterbourne found her in a little crimson drawing room on a third | Daisy Miller |
"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural." | Daisy Miller | gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, | walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." | she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet | at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," | here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you | one. It s her wretched health." The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn t be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. "Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in | Miss Daisy, opening her fan. "She s going to try to get Eugenio to talk to him. But he isn t afraid of Eugenio. Eugenio s a splendid courier, but he can t make much impression on Randolph! I don t believe he ll go to bed before eleven." It appeared that Randolph s vigil was in fact triumphantly prolonged, for Winterbourne strolled about with the young girl for some time without meeting her mother. "I have been looking round for that lady you want to introduce me to," his companion resumed. "She s your aunt." Then, on Winterbourne s admitting the fact and expressing some curiosity as to how she had learned it, she said she had heard all about Mrs. Costello from the chambermaid. She was very quiet and very comme il faut; she wore white puffs; she spoke to no one, and she never dined at the table d hote. Every two days she had a headache. "I think that s a lovely description, headache and all!" said Miss Daisy, chattering along in her thin, gay voice. "I want to know her ever so much. I know just what YOUR aunt would be; I know I should like her. She would be very exclusive. I like a lady to be exclusive; I m dying to be exclusive myself. Well, we ARE exclusive, mother and I. We don t speak to everyone--or they don t speak to us. I suppose it s about the same thing. Anyway, I shall be ever so glad to know your aunt." Winterbourne was embarrassed. "She would be most happy," he said; "but I am afraid those headaches will interfere." The young girl looked at him through the dusk. "But I suppose she doesn t have a headache every day," she said sympathetically. Winterbourne was silent a moment. "She tells me she does," he answered at last, not knowing what to say. Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him. Her prettiness was still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous fan. "She doesn t want to know me!" she said suddenly. "Why don t you say so? You needn t be afraid. I m not afraid!" And she gave a little laugh. Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it. "My dear young lady," he protested, "she knows no one. It s her wretched health." The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn t be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. "Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! | at him through the dusk. "But I suppose she doesn t have a headache every day," she said sympathetically. Winterbourne was silent a moment. "She tells me she does," he answered at last, not knowing what to say. Miss Daisy Miller stopped and stood looking at him. Her prettiness was still visible in the darkness; she was opening and closing her enormous fan. "She doesn t want to know me!" she said suddenly. "Why don t you say so? You needn t be afraid. I m not afraid!" And she gave a little laugh. Winterbourne fancied there was a tremor in her voice; he was touched, shocked, mortified by it. "My dear young lady," he protested, "she knows no one. It s her wretched health." The young girl walked on a few steps, laughing still. "You needn t be afraid," she repeated. "Why should she want to know me?" Then she paused again; she was close to the parapet of the garden, and in front of her was the starlit lake. There was a vague sheen upon its surface, and in the distance were dimly seen mountain forms. Daisy Miller looked out upon the mysterious prospect and then she gave another little laugh. "Gracious! she IS exclusive!" she said. Winterbourne wondered whether she was seriously wounded, and for a moment almost wished that her sense of injury might be such as to make it becoming in him to attempt to reassure and comfort her. He had a pleasant sense that she would be very approachable for consolatory purposes. He felt then, for the instant, quite ready to sacrifice his aunt, conversationally; to admit that she was a proud, rude woman, and to declare that they needn t mind her. But before he had time to commit himself to this perilous mixture of gallantry and impiety, the young lady, resuming her walk, gave an exclamation in quite another tone. "Well, here s Mother! I guess she hasn t got Randolph to go to bed." The figure of a lady appeared at a distance, very indistinct in the darkness, and advancing with a slow and wavering movement. Suddenly it seemed to pause. "Are you sure it is your mother? Can you distinguish her in this thick dusk?" Winterbourne asked. "Well!" cried Miss Daisy Miller with a laugh; "I guess I know my own mother. And when she has got on my shawl, too! She is always wearing my things." The lady in question, ceasing to advance, hovered vaguely about the spot at which she had checked her steps. "I am afraid your mother doesn t see you," said Winterbourne. "Or perhaps," he added, thinking, with Miss Miller, the joke permissible--"perhaps she feels guilty about your shawl." "Oh, it s a fearful old thing!" the young girl replied serenely. "I told her she could wear it. She won t come here because she sees you." "Ah, then," said Winterbourne, "I had better leave you." "Oh, no; come on!" urged Miss Daisy Miller. "I m afraid your mother doesn t approve of my walking with you." Miss Miller gave him a serious glance.<|quote|>"It isn t for me; it s for you--that is, it s for HER. Well, I don t know who it s for! But mother doesn t like any of my gentlemen friends. She s right down timid. She always makes a fuss if I introduce a gentleman. But I DO introduce them--almost always. If I didn t introduce my gentlemen friends to Mother," the young girl added in her little soft, flat monotone, "I shouldn t think I was natural."</|quote|>"To introduce me," said Winterbourne, "you must know my name." And he proceeded to pronounce it. "Oh, dear, I can t say all that!" said his companion with a laugh. But by this time they had come up to Mrs. Miller, who, as they drew near, walked to the parapet of the garden and leaned upon it, looking intently at the lake and turning her back to them. "Mother!" said the young girl in a tone of decision. Upon this the elder lady turned round. "Mr. Winterbourne," said Miss Daisy Miller, introducing the young man very frankly and prettily. "Common," she was, as Mrs. Costello had pronounced her; yet it was a wonder to Winterbourne that, with her commonness, she had a singularly delicate grace. Her mother was a small, spare, light person, with a wandering eye, a very exiguous nose, and a large forehead, decorated with a certain amount of thin, much frizzled hair. Like her daughter, Mrs. Miller was dressed with extreme elegance; she had enormous diamonds in her ears. So far as Winterbourne could observe, she gave him no greeting--she certainly was not looking at him. Daisy was near her, pulling her shawl straight. "What are you doing, poking round here?" this young lady inquired, but by no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily | Daisy Miller |
she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: | No speaker | reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back | if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never | Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And | round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in | pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored | that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her | the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' "And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which her relations considered indispensable, and Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things were done." Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grandmother's favour. Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason. He did not have far to seek for that reason. On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she had said it with her head on his breast. He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trusted them. But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was no turning back. At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow the line of least resistance. An hour earlier, when he had rung Mrs. Mingott's bell, Archer had fancied that his path was clear before him. He had | that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted. "Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it," he reassured her. "Then we're safe!"<|quote|>she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions:</|quote|>"I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been | The Age Of Innocence |
"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before" | Catherine Morland | a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in | now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would | end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual | determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in | general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, | s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and | income to begin on indeed, but your wishes, my dear Isabella, are so moderate, you do not consider how little you ever want, my dear." "It is not on my own account I wish for more; but I cannot bear to be the means of injuring my dear Morland, making him sit down upon an income hardly enough to find one in the common necessaries of life. For myself, it is nothing; I never think of myself." "I know you never do, my dear; and you will always find your reward in the affection it makes everybody feel for you. There never was a young woman so beloved as you are by everybody that knows you; and I dare say when Mr. Morland sees you, my dear child but do not let us distress our dear Catherine by talking of such things. Mr. Morland has behaved so very handsome, you know. I always heard he was a most excellent man; and you know, my dear, we are not to suppose but what, if you had had a suitable fortune, he would have come down with something more, for I am sure he must be a most liberal-minded man." "Nobody can think better of Mr. Morland than I do, I am sure. But everybody has their failing, you know, and everybody has a right to do what they like with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. "I am very sure," said she, "that my father has promised to do as much as he can afford." Isabella recollected herself. "As to that, my sweet Catherine, there cannot be a doubt, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much smaller income would satisfy me. It is not the want of more money that makes me just at present a little out of spirits; I hate money; and if our union could take place now upon only fifty pounds a year, I should not have a wish unsatisfied. Ah! my Catherine, you have found me out. There s the sting. The long, long, endless two years and half that are to pass before your brother can hold the living." "Yes, yes, my darling Isabella," said Mrs. Thorpe, "we perfectly see into your heart. You have no disguise. We perfectly understand the present vexation; and everybody must love you the better for such a noble honest affection." Catherine s uncomfortable feelings began to lessen. She endeavoured to believe that the delay of the marriage was the only source of Isabella s regret; and when she saw her at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as nearly settled as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow. The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine s feelings through the varieties of suspense, security, and disappointment; but they were now safely lodged in perfect bliss; and with spirits elated to rapture, with Henry at her heart, and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr. and Mrs. Morland, relying on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt of the propriety of an acquaintance which had been formed under their eye, and sent therefore by return of post their ready consent to her visit in Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though not more than Catherine had hoped for, completed her conviction of being favoured beyond every other human creature, in friends and fortune, circumstance and chance. Everything seemed to cooperate for her advantage. By the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced into scenes where pleasures of every kind had met her. Her feelings, her preferences, had each known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to create it. The affection of Isabella was to be secured to her in a sister. The Tilneys, they, by whom, above all, she desired to be favourably thought of, outstripped even her wishes in the flattering measures by which their intimacy was to be continued. She was to be their chosen visitor, she was to be for weeks under the same roof with the person whose society she mostly prized and, in addition to all the rest, this roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for ancient edifices was next in degree to her passion for Henry Tilney and castles and abbeys made usually the charm of those reveries which his image did not fill. To see and explore either | at their next interview as cheerful and amiable as ever, endeavoured to forget that she had for a minute thought otherwise. James soon followed his letter, and was received with the most gratifying kindness. CHAPTER 17 The Allens had now entered on the sixth week of their stay in Bath; and whether it should be the last was for some time a question, to which Catherine listened with a beating heart. To have her acquaintance with the Tilneys end so soon was an evil which nothing could counterbalance. Her whole happiness seemed at stake, while the affair was in suspense, and everything secured when it was determined that the lodgings should be taken for another fortnight. What this additional fortnight was to produce to her beyond the pleasure of sometimes seeing Henry Tilney made but a small part of Catherine s speculation. Once or twice indeed, since James s engagement had taught her what _could_ be done, she had got so far as to indulge in a secret "perhaps," but in general the felicity of being with him for the present bounded her views: the present was now comprised in another three weeks, and her happiness being certain for that period, the rest of her life was at such a distance as to excite but little interest. In the course of the morning which saw this business arranged, she visited Miss Tilney, and poured forth her joyful feelings. It was doomed to be a day of trial. No sooner had she expressed her delight in Mr. Allen s lengthened stay than Miss Tilney told her of her father s having just determined upon quitting Bath by the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past suspense of the morning had been ease and quiet to the present disappointment. Catherine s countenance fell, and in a voice of most sincere concern she echoed Miss Tilney s concluding words, "By the end of another week!" "Yes, my father can seldom be prevailed on to give the waters what I think a fair trial. He has been disappointed of some friends arrival whom he expected to meet here, and as he is now pretty well, is in a hurry to get home."<|quote|>"I am very sorry for it," said Catherine dejectedly; "if I had known this before"</|quote|>"Perhaps," said Miss Tilney in an embarrassed manner, "you would be so good it would make me very happy if" The entrance of her father put a stop to the civility, which Catherine was beginning to hope might introduce a desire of their corresponding. After addressing her with his usual politeness, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on being successful in your application to your fair friend?" "I was just beginning to make the request, sir, as you came in." "Well, proceed by all means. I know how much your heart is in it. My daughter, Miss Morland," he continued, without leaving his daughter time to speak, "has been forming a very bold wish. We leave Bath, as she has perhaps told you, on Saturday se nnight. A letter from my steward tells me that my presence is wanted at home; and being disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, there is nothing to detain me longer in Bath. And could we carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. Can you, in short, be prevailed on to quit this scene of public triumph and oblige your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, though its presumption would certainly appear greater to every creature in Bath than yourself. Modesty such as yours but not for the world would I pain it by open praise. If you can be induced to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond expression. Tis true, we can offer you nothing like the gaieties of this lively place; we can tempt you neither by amusement nor splendour, for our mode of living, as you see, is plain and unpretending; yet no endeavours shall be wanting on our side to make Northanger Abbey not wholly disagreeable." Northanger Abbey! These were thrilling words, and wound up Catherine s feelings to the highest point of ecstasy. Her grateful and gratified heart could hardly restrain its expressions within the language of tolerable calmness. To receive so flattering an invitation! To have her company so warmly solicited! Everything honourable and soothing, every present enjoyment, and every future hope was contained in it; and her acceptance, with only the saving clause of Papa and Mamma s approbation, was eagerly given. "I will write home directly," said she, "and if they do not object, as I dare say they will not" General Tilney was not less sanguine, having already waited on her excellent friends in Pulteney Street, and obtained their sanction of his wishes. "Since they can consent to part with you," said he, "we may expect philosophy from all the world." Miss Tilney was earnest, though gentle, in her secondary civilities, and the affair became in a few minutes as | Northanger Abbey |
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