a minute or two. Then he went back to the rocky steps and disappeared down them. He followed his chalk-marks, and soon came to where George was attacking the door. She had smashed it well round the lock- but it simply would not give way. Julian took the axe from her and drove it hard into the wood. After a blow or two something seemed to happen to the lock. It became loose, and hung a little sideways. Julian put down his axe. "I think somehow that we can open the door now," he said, in an exited voice. "Get out of the way, Tim, old fellow. Now then, push, George!" They both pushed- and the lock gave way with a grating noise. The big door opened creakingly, and the two children went inside, flashing their torches in excitement. The room was not much more than a cave, hollowed out of the rock- but in it was something quite different from the old barrels and boxes the children had found before. At the back, in untidy piles, were curious, brick-shaped things of dull yellow-brown metal. Julian picked one up. "George!" he cried. "The ingots! These are real gold! Oh, I know they don't look like it- but they are, all the same. George, oh George, there's a small fortune here in this cellar- and it's yours! We've found it at last!" Chapter Fourteen PRISONERS! Contents- Prev/Next GEORGE couldn't say a word. She just stood there, staring at the pile of ingots, holding one in her hand. She could hardly believe that these strange brick-shaped things were really gold. Her heart thumped fast. What a wonderful, marvellous find! Suddenly Tim began to bark loudly. He stood with his back to the children, his nose towards the door- and how he barked! "Shut up, Tim!" said Julian. "What can you hear? Is it the others coming back?" He went to the door and yelled down the passage outside. "Dick! Anne! Is it you? Come quickly, because we've found the ingots! WE'VE FOUND THEM! HURRY! HURRY!" Tim stopped barking and began to growl. George looked puzzled. "Whatever can be the matter with Tim?" she said. "He surely can't be growling at Dick and Anne." Then both children got a most tremendous shock- for a man's voice came booming down the dark passage, making queer echoes all around. "Who is here? Who is down here?" George clutched Julian in fright. Tim went on growling, all the hairs on his neck standing up straight. "Do be quiet, Tim!" whispered George, snapping off her torch. But Tim simply would not be quiet. He went on growling as if he were a small thunderstorm. The children saw the beam of a powerful torchlight coming round the corner of the dungeon passage. Then the light picked them out, and the holder of the torch came to a surprised stop. "Well, well, well!" said a voice. "Look who's here! Two children in the dungeons of my castle." "What do you mean, your castle!" cried George. "Well, my dear little girl, it


save at the front. Once more Francois called, and once more Buck laughed and kept away. "T'row down de club," Perrault commanded. Francois complied, whereupon Buck trotted in, laughing triumphantly, and swung around into position at the head of the team. His traces were fastened, the sled broken out, and with both men running they dashed out on to the river trail. Highly as the dog-driver had forevalued Buck, with his two devils, he found, while the day was yet young, that he had undervalued. At a bound Buck took up the duties of leadership; and where judgment was required, and quick thinking and quick acting, he showed himself the superior even of Spitz, of whom Francois had never seen an equal. But it was in giving the law and making his mates live up to it, that Buck excelled. Dave and Sol-leks did not mind the change in leadership. It was none of their business. Their business was to toil, and toil mightily, in the traces. So long as that were not interfered with, they did not care what happened. Billee, the good-natured, could lead for all they cared, so long as he kept order. The rest of the team, however, had grown unruly during the last days of Spitz, and their surprise was great now that Buck proceeded to lick them into shape. Pike, who pulled at Buck's heels, and who never put an ounce more of his weight against the breast-band than he was compelled to do, was swiftly and repeatedly shaken for loafing; and ere the first day was done he was pulling more than ever before in his life. The first night in camp, Joe, the sour one, was punished roundly-- a thing that Spitz had never succeeded in doing. Buck simply smothered him by virtue of superior weight, and cut him up till he ceased snapping and began to whine for mercy. The general tone of the team picked up immediately. It recovered its old-time solidarity, and once more the dogs leaped as one dog in the traces. At the Rink Rapids two native huskies, Teek and Koona, were added; and the celerity with which Buck broke them in took away Francois's breath. "Nevaire such a dog as dat Buck!" he cried. "No, nevaire! Heem worth one t'ousan' dollair, by Gar! Eh? Wot you say, Perrault?" And Perrault nodded. He was ahead of the record then, and gaining day by day. The trail was in excellent condition, well packed and hard, and there was no new-fallen snow with which to contend. It was not too cold. The temperature dropped to fifty below zero and remained there the whole trip. The men rode and ran by turn, and the dogs were kept on the jump, with but infrequent stoppages. The Thirty Mile River was comparatively coated with ice, and they covered in one day going out what had taken them ten days coming in. In one run they made a sixty-mile dash from the foot of Lake Le Barge to the White Horse Rapids. Across Marsh, Tagish,


draw Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales Profusely breathing from the piney groves, And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear The roaring floods, and cataracts.* *Thomson St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further to go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks of the road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring cliff. It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can awaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.' The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following morning, therefore, they were to part,


this isn’t folly. This is a criminal operation. I’ve already gathered some truly damning evidence against NuLife, and I intend to expose the corporation for what it is.” “See what you can dig up on this guy,” I said to Brianna. I stayed in the office long after everyone left, first finishing paperwork, then playing PC games that reminded me of childhood. Get the POV character into the castle, then get him to defeat the ghosts. Send the race car around the track until it crashes. Brianna stayed at a desk on the floor within sight of my office, answering emails and typing up expense reports until I finished playing, at which point I summoned her. Then I described what I was in the mood for and she nodded curtly and vanished, at which point I started playing the PC games again. No longer than an hour later she reappeared with someone who looked twenty-one, strong jawed in black jeans with a crossbar in his ear, and handed me her wallet, which I peeled apart to reveal a bag containing a few bumps of coke. “Thank you, Brianna,” I said, and she left, and the twenty-one-year-old grabbed the coke from me and did a bump, and then I did a bump, and then he took his shirt off and I took my shirt off. Sometimes I went to parts of town where I knew I wouldn’t be recognized, and the sex was quick and messy in the bathroom stalls of bars and clubs and, just once, a department store. Few if any questions were asked. I always offered to pay, which torqued some people off. I should never have offered to pay. People reported that Emily had relocated from her mansion in LA to the Farm, where she and Orson were sharing a “modest home” together. There was a photo of it: an Enner house not unlike any other Enner house, a split-level with a garage and a garret and a bay window in the living room—I’d been in hundreds of them before but had never imagined that Orson and Emily would share one. In the photo, the two of them stood in their driveway, Orson in a black-and-red flannel with a full beard and Emily in leggings and a fleece jacket, her hair a tawny brown—quite possibly her natural color, but there was no way of knowing—her cheeks rouged from the Oswego cold. There were other photos of them too: leaving clubs hand in hand, attending galas, posing with other celebrities. I read the tweets about them: It’s L. Ron Hotboy and Lady Barnum Do they milk cows on the Farm? Or just investors? I think of him as a fancy millennial Koresh Honestly if he looks like that all the time I want in on the hustle I began building the NuLife Centers in Urmau and employed thousands of Urmanese in the manufacture of Bliss-Minis. For every Urmanese NuLife Center I opened, I opened one in the States, until most major U.S. cities had brick-and-mortar places where people could buy


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

accepted narrative of her having taken a fall during a nasty storm.) Decades later, villagers throughout the Berchtesgaden Alps claim to hear Eichorn’s voice calling “Dani! Dani!” during winter tempests, though whether this amounts to evidence that one or both remain trapped in some liminal alpine realm is the subject of much conjecture. See When Folklorists Become Folklore: Ethnographic Accounts of the Eichorn/de Grey Saga by Ernst Graf. 18th November The provisions were more than adequate. The entire village came together in a towering display of generosity and efficiency. By nine o’clock this morning, we had two horses and a sleigh stocked with enough food, firewood, blankets, and assorted comforts to last us days. Somehow, one of the women found time to knit a jacket for Shadow which, combined with the other gifts, left me unaccountably flustered—given my companion’s size, it would have taken her hours. Bambleby and I entertained ourselves at the cottage by coaxing a recalcitrant Shadow into his new raiment, which was patterned with flowers and equipped with a jaunty hood. The dog hung his head in abject embarrassment until his tormentors deigned to relieve him of this woollen pillory, and he spent the next hour pointedly ignoring me. Fortunately, the path taken by Lilja and Margret into the wilderness was clear, for it had not snowed since their abduction, and sailors believed the skies would remain fair for another day or so. As the villagers readied our provisions, Bambleby and I hiked up to the spring one last time. Poe had made little progress with his tree, though the snow was scattered with soot he had shovelled from the interior. Bambleby exclaimed in displeasure at the sight of the venerable old tree reduced to a husk. “Frost-blasted,” he muttered. “Disrespectful bloody bogles.” Before Poe or I could speak, he touched the tree, and it was healed—ruddy with health and radiant with greenery against the winter pallor. Poe gave a cry and fell upon his sharp knees before Bambleby, trembling, which the latter took no notice of whatsoever. When Poe brought him a magnificent loaf as a thank- you present, Bambleby said rudely, “I am sick to death of bread. Bring me something that will keep me warm in this hellish place.” “Can he do that?” I said after Poe went scrambling back into his tree home, from which arose a queer chorus of clanging and scraping and a sort of bubbling noise. Bambleby only waved his hand and went back to his sulking. Poe reappeared within the hour with a basket woven from willow boughs, covered with a coarse wool blanket. Bambleby accepted it ungraciously and without even glancing at the contents, even though whatever was beneath the wool steamed intriguingly. I had to take the basket away from him, and found within half a dozen glazed cakes, not unlike those I have seen Ljoslanders consume on special occasions. These would continue steaming until eaten. Poe answered my questions with something approaching good nature, his black eyes a little damp as his fingers lovingly stroked the roots of


that were unlike any known grade of gold in the Northland. But no living man had looted this treasure house, and the dead were dead; wherefore John Thornton and Pete and Hans, with Buck and half a dozen other dogs, faced into the East on an unknown trail to achieve where men and dogs as good as themselves had failed. They sledded seventy miles up the Yukon, swung to the left into the Stewart River, passed the Mayo and the McQuestion, and held on until the Stewart itself became a streamlet, threading the upstanding peaks which marked the backbone of the continent. John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was unafraid of the wild. With a handful of salt and a rifle he could plunge into the wilderness and fare wherever he pleased and as long as he pleased. Being in no haste, Indian fashion, he hunted his dinner in the course of the day's travel; and if he failed to find it, like the Indian, he kept on travelling, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later he would come to it. So, on this great journey into the East, straight meat was the bill of fare, ammunition and tools principally made up the load on the sled, and the time-card was drawn upon the limitless future. To Buck it was boundless delight, this hunting, fishing, and indefinite wandering through strange places. For weeks at a time they would hold on steadily, day after day; and for weeks upon end they would camp, here and there, the dogs loafing and the men burning holes through frozen muck and gravel and washing countless pans of dirt by the heat of the fire. Sometimes they went hungry, sometimes they feasted riotously, all according to the abundance of game and the fortune of hunting. Summer arrived, and dogs and men packed on their backs, rafted across blue mountain lakes, and descended or ascended unknown rivers in slender boats whipsawed from the standing forest. The months came and went, and back and forth they twisted through the uncharted vastness, where no men were and yet where men had been if the Lost Cabin were true. They went across divides in summer blizzards, shivered under the midnight sun on naked mountains between the timber line and the eternal snows, dropped into summer valleys amid swarming gnats and flies, and in the shadows of glaciers picked strawberries and flowers as ripe and fair as any the Southland could boast. In the fall of the year they penetrated a weird lake country, sad and silent, where wild- fowl had been, but where then there was no life nor sign of life-- only the blowing of chill winds, the forming of ice in sheltered places, and the melancholy rippling of waves on lonely beaches. And through another winter they wandered on the obliterated trails of men who had gone before. Once, they came upon a path blazed through the forest, an ancient path, and the Lost Cabin seemed very near. But the path began nowhere and ended


wasn’t going to insult a man who’d literally stopped in his tracks on the way out of town and stayed to help her. Not a chance. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dalton, but it is a real marriage. August Cates is an incredible person, actually. Did you know he moved to St. Helena to open a winery in his friend’s name? His friend had this dream, but he died before he could fulfill it, so August is doing it for him. Yes, even though he’s awful at winemaking. I don’t expect you to understand integrity like that. You made wine because you wanted to be the best. He makes it to honor a friend. August . . . he listens to me and tries to understand me when I can barely understand myself most of the time. He wants me to believe in love. He said that. Out loud.” She stood up and started to pace. “He’s reliable. And funny. He’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who genuinely makes me laugh. I don’t have to fake it. And I care about him.” Oh God, was she really doing this? Marrying August for some indefinable reason when her ticket back to the East Coast was within her grasp? Yes. Yes, she was. “I’m not calling off the wedding in exchange for getting the money now. Your rules are bullshit, but apparently . . . I’m following them anyway. I’m marrying him.” “My rules might be bullshit, but you’re going to wish you didn’t have to follow them. Turn down my offer and you’ll be obligated to convince Ingram Meyer that you’re not a couple of brazen cons—and believe me, it won’t be easy.” “Good. I welcome the opportunity. Arrivederci, Father.” * * * August’s palms started to sweat at the very moment the wedding march started. All right, this was really happening. This was his wedding day. August had never imagined his own wedding, per se. But he’d always assumed his parents would be there. Sam, too. He’d figured on a lot more people in naval uniforms and fewer people in statement scarves. He didn’t know anyone in attendance very well. Julian stood to his right, giving him a steady professor look that caused August a beat of panic. Did he forget to turn in his homework? No, this was his wedding day and he . . . needed some reassurance. Someone to smack him in the head and remind him he was marrying a ten. Because he was. That was what he really needed. To see Natalie. She knew him. They knew each other. She was his closest friend in the tent, for better or for worse. I’ll make it for better. Won’t I? Yeah, you will, said Sam’s voice in his head. You’re more than stubborn enough. August’s hand automatically rose to his pocket, his pulse calming when he felt the outline of the laminated picture— Oh shit. Oh . . . shit. August’s emotions were raw to begin with, but when Natalie appeared at the top


series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine and addressed me in French, "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to make you more comfortable?" "I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving." "I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge." "That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?" "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight


urge to push his sleeves back down. So what if Andy thinks he’s rough or coarse—plenty of people do. He thinks Andy is spoiled and out of touch. They’re both free to think all kinds of insulting things about one another. Nick doesn’t care. Besides, Nick has a mirror and knows that anyone who looks at him and doesn’t like what they see just has bad taste. What does it matter if Andy has bad taste? He’s wearing boat shoes and linen pants at Yankee Stadium—taste doesn’t get much worse than that. “You know,” Andy says conversationally, “I don’t even care for the ballet.” Nick spins around to face him, and sees Andy with that fifty percent sheepish, fifty percent smug expression he’s never seen on any face other than Andy Fleming’s. “Bullshit.” The entire reason they’re at this godawful stadium watching this godawful team is that Nick won a bet. Andy bet that some reporting Nick did on a fire at the Museum of Modern Art would wind up above the fold on the front page; Nick—trying not to be pleased by this vote of confidence, however delusional, laughed in his face and bet that it wouldn’t. The deal was that if Andy won, then Nick had to go with Andy to the ballet. Otherwise, Andy would go with Nick to a baseball game. The only problem on Nick’s end is that baseball in New York now means only the Yankees. “I picked something I thought you’d hate,” Andy says. Nick feels a slow, reluctant smile spread across his face. “I probably wouldn’t have minded the ballet.” He knows what those male dancers wear. That would have kept his mind occupied for a couple hours, make no mistake, not that Andy needs to know about it. “I’d have probably liked the ballet a hell of a lot more than I’m enjoying this.” “Not a fan?” “Christ, no. I only picked this because I knew you’d hate it. Why do you root for the Red Sox, anyway? I thought you were from New York,” Nick says, as if he hadn’t spent half his life scanning the Herald Tribune for Andy’s mother’s byline right before reading the Chronicle from front to back. “I went to boarding school in New England.” The way Andy says it gently closes a door on that topic, and Nick is the last person in the world to push on a closed door. “I hate everything about them,” Nick says, gesturing toward the field with his beer. “I hate the stadium, I hate the fans, I hate the— Well, I’d probably like the players if they played on any other team.” “I wouldn’t,” Andy says mildly. “I can’t stand any of them.” Nick can’t imagine Andy hating anyone, can’t imagine him holding a grudge or being petty. “I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.” There’s the crack of wood against leather, then a whoosh of noise from the stands as the Yankees score a run. “Fuck that guy,” says Andy. Another runner crosses home. “And him, too.”


underestimating the depths of wickedness to which they’re capable of descending. VOICES AS MEANINGLESS AS WIND IN DRY GRASS Above the storm, the sun is sliding away from this half of the planet. Here in the tempest, all the paycheck pussies are on their way to happy hour for a few glasses of whatever might smooth the wrinkles out of their minds. The freeway pilgrims who can’t afford several cocktails are crawling home to their nothing houses to say a prayer before they eat the beans and rice their god provides, their workday done, and nothing for them now but to stream a movie and get ready to kiss the boss’s ass again tomorrow. For Aleem Sutter, his average workday is three hours long, at most four, thirty minutes here and fifteen there, ragging the swing men to stay true to their promises to supply the goods, making sure the mules don’t forget how bad they’ll be jacked up if the weight of a shipment goes down even an ounce during transport, jamming dealers to meet their quotas, keeping the homeboys motivated with snaps, lots of Benjamins. Aleem doesn’t need to work a full forty because he has so many worker bees laboring for him. Right now, two blocks from his current position, four once-hot quiffs, now too old and skanked out to sell their booty even to cougar lovers, are spending eight hours capping up bulk barbiturates and parceling them into fifty-cent bags, tax-free cash work to augment the government checks they’ve been receiving illegally since they turned fifty. When he isn’t working, like now, Aleem is usually chilling out with his homeys or doing some tail, or what he calls “adventuring,” which is looking to get into some kind of trouble just to see if he still has the brains and balls to get out of it. Right now, riding shotgun in Kuba’s Lexus SUV, he’s tending to some domestic business, making sure his rights as a father are respected, following Nina’s Explorer, trying to decide if the treacherous bitch is just going out for a quart of milk or making a run for it. Kuba says, “I hate this shit.” “What shit?” “This weather.” “We got a drought.” “Not tonight we don’t.” “Gotta have rain, brother.” “We already got us an ocean.” “Can’t drink ocean water.” “Damn surfers pissin’ in it.” “It’s the salt,” says Aleem. “I put salt on everythin’.” “Drink salt water, your gut blows up.” “Blows up, huh?” “Blows up.” “You the man, Aleem.” “Got that right.” “You the man, I respect you, but shit.” “Say what?” “Salt don’t explode.” “Eat a box of Morton’s, see what happens.” “Salt ain’t a brick of C-4.” “So see what happens.” “Aleem, where you get these ideas?” “You ever gone to school, Kuba?” “I gone seven years ’fore I offed that teacher.” “I forgot about that.” “Had to drop out, change my name, join the gang.” “Best thing you ever done.” “I’m up on it,” Kuba agrees. “You was what—thirteen?” “Twelve. Teacher always talkin’ his big ideas.” “Some of


Aaron Winthrop) or adoptive (as with Eppie and Silas). When Eppie has to choose between her biological father, Godfrey, and her adoptive father, Silas, what factors count most with her? Wholesome human affections can restore a damaged personality like Silas'. Yet stunted affections, like those at Squire Cass' house, can damage a basically good person like Godfrey. Look at the way larger communities are bound together, too: Lantern-Yard, the city Silas came from, Raveloe as a whole, or the upperclass society of Raveloe. 4. CHANGE In Eliot's view, all change is the product of a multitude of tiny factors. The process is so complex that mere humans cannot presume to control it. To examine this theory, Eliot chose for her main setting a community with ingrained old beliefs, a place where change comes slowly. She shows how gradually the collective "mind" of village opinion shifts until it accepts Silas. Many individual characters, too, have fixed habits of thought that are hard to change. Consider, for example, Squire Cass, Nancy Lammeter, old Mr. Macey, Dolly Winthrop, Godfrey's wife Molly, and Silas himself. Choosing a long time span for her story, Eliot shows people changing gradually over the years, as Silas changes before his robbery and then after finding Eppie. She also minutely examines step by step the process of short-term changes--the reasoning that leads Godfrey to keep his secret marriage hidden or that makes Dunstan rob Silas. 5. THE IMPORTANCE OF THE PAST Raveloe is a society strongly connected to its past. In contrast, the town Silas comes from seems impersonal and transient--when Silas returns thirty-two years later, Lantern-Yard has been literally wiped off the face of the Earth. Individuals in this book also are connected to their own pasts in different degrees. Godfrey hopes to bury his past. Silas and Eppie cherish their past together. As Silas is redeemed by his love for Eppie, he regains a sense of his past, and memory heals him. Attachment to the past can be stultifying, however, for characters like Squire Cass and Nancy Lammeter. Look at the role played in this novel by local traditions, personal memories, and familiar objects or places. By her own comments, then, Eliot gives this story, set in the past, a meaning for her own modern world. 6. OTHER THEMES In Silas Marner, Eliot also examines the class system of England in microcosm (mark the differences between the upper and lower classes, and judge Eliot's comments on them). Connected to this is her belief in the importance of work. The villagers understand the value of having a craft or skill and the role this gives one in a community. Silas clings to his craft when all else is taken from him. In the upper class, the Lammeter girls understand hard work, but the Cass sons are dangerously idle. In examining the social structure of Raveloe, however, Eliot defines a society that no longer exists. In describing Raveloe particularly by comparing it to the town Silas comes from--she depicts an England that may have been destroyed by the spread of the


must put out their eyes, and ram a skewer through their necks; usage pronouncing that they must have no organs but ears, and no limbs but arms, in these critical moments. It was a sight full of quick wonder and awe! The vast swells of the omnipotent sea; the surging, hollow roar they made, as they rolled along the eight gunwales, like gigantic bowls in a boundless bowling-green; the brief suspended agony of the boat, as it would tip for an instant on the knife-like edge of the sharper waves, that almost seemed threatening to cut it in two; the sudden profound dip into the watery glens and hollows; the keen spurrings and goadings to gain the top of the opposite hill; the headlong, sled-like slide down its other side; --all these, with the cries of the headsmen and harpooneers, and the shuddering gasps of the oarsmen, with the wondrous sight of the ivory Pequod bearing down upon her boats with outstretched sails, like a wild hen after her screaming brood; --all this was thrilling. Not the raw recruit, marching from the bosom of his wife into the fever heat of his first battle; not the dead man's ghost encountering .. <p 223 > the first unknown phantom in the other world; --neither of these can feel stranger and stronger emotions than that man does, who for the first time finds himself pulling into the charmed, churned circle of the hunted sperm whale. The dancing white water made by the chase was now becoming more and more visible, owing to the increasing darkness of the dun cloud-shadows flung upon the sea. The jets of vapor no longer blended, but tilted everywhere to right and left; the whales seemed separating their wakes. The boats were pulled more apart; Starbuck giving chase to three whales running dead to leeward. Our sail was now set, and, with the still rising wind, we rushed along; the boat going with such madness through the water, that the lee oars could scarcely be worked rapidly enough to escape being torn from the row-locks. Soon we were running through a suffusing wide veil of mist; neither ship nor boat to be seen. Give way, men, whispered Starbuck, drawing still further aft the sheet of his sail; there is time to kill a fish yet before the squall comes. There's white water again! --close to! Spring! Soon after, two cries in quick succession on each side of us denoted that the other boats had got fast; but hardly were they overheard, when with a lightning-like hurtling whisper Starbuck said: Stand up! and Queequeg, harpoon in hand, sprang to his feet. Though not one of the oarsmen was then facing the life and death peril so close to them ahead, yet with their eyes on the intense countenance of the mate in the stern of the boat, they knew that the imminent instant had come; they heard, too, an enormous wallowing sound as of fifty elephants stirring in their litter. Meanwhile the boat was still booming through the mist, the waves


“Well,” he said, “I should be getting to work. Father’s accounts are not going to sort themselves out.” “Is there something wrong with the businesses?” Lady Calloway asked, clearly alarmed by the idea. But Lord Calloway waved the question away. “Of course not, Mother. He taught me well. When you are finished, Pritchard, I would like to know what should be done to help my brother’s recovery. I will be in the library.” He stepped out of the room before waiting for a response. The doctor spent a few more minutes looking over William, but then he declared him at the very least stable, if not recovering, and excused himself to go find Lord Calloway. Lady Calloway took hold of William’s hand in both of her own. “Where is Olivia?” she asked Lucy. “I did not see her this morning.” “She’s out riding.” Lucy lowered herself slowly onto the bed, where Lord Calloway had been sitting earlier. She could tell Lady Calloway needed something to distract her, and she fully understood why. Gazing down at William’s pale face was enough to tie Lucy’s stomach in knots, and she barely knew the man. She could only imagine how worried his mother was, particularly if he had been through something like this before. “No doubt she is trying to beat Simon,” Lady Calloway said with a smile. “She’ll never manage it, no matter how fast her horse is. I have never seen a beast that flies like Simon’s Hermes, nor a master who rides as if weightless like he does.” “Olivia is quite determined to put him in his place.” “I wish her all the luck. Since the day he took over for his father, Simon has never lost a race.” A soft moan came from the bed, and both women turned to William in surprise. Lucy’s heart kicked up a notch as she wondered if her moment of truth was suddenly here. Was he going to wake up and tell his mother everything? “William?” Lady Calloway whispered, pushing his hair from his forehead with trembling fingers. “Can you hear me, William?” But, despite his mother’s fervent words, William remained motionless. If he truly had woken, it had been for only a moment. Lucy let out the breath she’d been holding. She was not supposed to be glad he was asleep, but the longer he slept, the longer she would be able to stay with the Calloways and give them a reason to help her. “Maybe he will wake soon,” she told Lady Calloway and put a comforting hand on the woman’s arm. Or maybe all of this would turn disastrous, and Lucy would be only one heartbreak among many in the Calloway home. Chapter Nine Simon had to admit it; Olivia was getting good. Her horse had run with the wind at its tail, and their upcoming race—whenever he actually found the time for it—would be far more interesting than any had been in the past. There was even a chance, however slight, that she might win, and Simon knew he would never


Hannah Whitten - The Foxglove King-Orbit (2023).txt

Lore’s voice came out ragged. “Sorry for saving me?” Her mother lowered her chin, her long, pale hair almost covering her face. “But you can be strong now,” she said, as if Lore hadn’t spoken at all. “You can make the right choice.” “You’re asking her to die, and you think you’re in the right?” Gabe nearly spat it. But the Night Priestess didn’t respond. She looked only at Lore, only at her daughter. “It all springs from this choice,” she murmured. “You are the seed of the apocalypse.” And it was true. Lore didn’t know how, not yet, didn’t understand the intricacies. But she felt the truth. But it was also true what she’d told her mother. Lore was selfish. If it came down to her or the world, Lore chose herself. The Night Priestess sighed. Nodded, knowing Lore’s answer though she didn’t speak. Then, in a quick movement that the flickering flames bisected into strange jerks, she climbed up onto the lip of the well and descended the spinning stairs into the dark. Bastian moved forward, as if he’d follow and extract some kind of revenge, but Lore put her hand on his chest. “No,” she murmured, and had nothing else to add. “No.” He listened. “You’ve chosen your path, the three of you,” Anton murmured. “Woe betide us when the rest follow.” Bastian looked at Gabe. Flicked his hand. “The old man will live, Gabe.” Shoulders slumped in relief, Gabe finally took his dagger from Anton’s throat. He stepped back, letting the Priest Exalted stand on his own. Bastian’s hand moved, twisting in a graceful motion that looked near impossible. Golden swirls carved through the air, coalescing around his fingers, threads spun from the sun itself. Then Bastian thrust his handful of gold toward Anton. The strands attached to the ground around the Priest Exalted, and it erupted. Thick green vines grew rapidly through the stone, thorn-studded, the ends opening in blood-red rose blooms identical to the ones burning near the path. They wound around his legs, his middle. They entered his mouth before he could so much as scream. His eye rolled as the empty socket of the other was filled with green, then red, a rose unfurling in the scarred orbital, petals brushing his flame-ravaged brow. It was over in an instant. Anton Arceneaux was encased in roses and blood, one more statue in the garden. And Bastian had done it so easily, as if it was second nature. Gabe made a small, hoarse noise, stumbling back. “You said you wouldn’t kill him.” His voice went ragged at the end. “You said you wouldn’t!” “I said he would live.” Bastian stepped forward to the remains of his uncle and wrenched the bloody crown from his hand. The Priest had held on to it all this time. “And he does.” The smallest rise and fall of Anton’s chest. The thinnest whistle of breath. Bastian was right; in all those roses, Anton was still alive. Gods, it was worse. Gabe’s eyes went from his Priest to his King, shock


sorry. It's just that . . . it's that I can't believe everything's over and there's no one to be frightened of any more.' She pressed his hand. 'You must think me very stupid.' 'Of course not,' said Bond. 'But really nobody could be interested in us now. Forget it all. The whole job's finished, wiped up. This is our holiday and there's not a cloud in the sky. Is there?' he persisted. 'No, of course not.' She shook herself slightly. 'I'm mad. Now we'll be there in a second. I do hope you're going to like it.' They both leant forward. Animation was back in her face and the incident left only the smallest question-mark hanging in the air. Even that faded as they came through the dunes and saw the sea and the modest little inn amongst the pines. 'It's not very grand, I'm afraid,' said Vesper. 'But it's very clean and the food's wonderful.' She looked at him anxiously. She need not have worried. Bond loved the place at first sight - the terrace leading almost to the high-tide mark, the low two-storied house with gay brick-red awnings over the windows and the crescent-shaped bay of blue water and golden sands. How many times in his life would he have given anything to have turned off a main road to find a lost corner like this where he could let the world go by and live in the sea from dawn to dusk. And now he was to have a whole week of this. And of Vesper. In his mind he fingered the necklace of the days to come. They drew up in the courtyard behind the house and the proprietor and his wife came out to greet them. Monsieur Versoix was a middle-aged man with one arm. The other he had lost fighting with the Free French in Madagascar. He was a friend of the chief of police of Royale and it was the Commissaire who had suggested the place to Vesper and had spoken to the proprietor on the telephone. As a result, nothing was going to be too good for them. Madame Versoix had been interrupted in the middle of preparing dinner. She wore an apron and held a wooden spoon in one hand. She was younger than her husband, chubby and handsome and warm-eyed. Instinctively Bond guessed that they had no children and that they gave their thwarted affection to their friends and some regular customers, and probably to some pets. He thought that their life was probably something of a struggle and that the inn must be very lonely in winter-time with the big seas and the noise of the wind in the pines. The proprietor showed them to their rooms. Vesper's was a double room and Bond was next door, at the corner of the house, with one window looking out to sea and another with a view of the distant arm of the bay. There was a bathroom between them. Everything was spotless, and sparsely comfortable. The proprietor was pleased when they


Extraordinaires. Bound in cerulean blue, it was a two-volume translation of Edgar Allen Poe’s short stories by Charles Baudelaire. I opened the cover to find that it was a first edition, published by Michel Lévy Frères, Paris, 1856–1857. My father was a fanatic when it came to Mr Poe and I too enjoyed ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ and so I saw it as a sign. I enquired as to the price of the book, my broken French immediately betraying me as a foreigner. It sounded like one hundred francs too many and after much gesturing (him turning out his pockets to indicate that I was robbing him blind) we agreed a price. I felt drunk with recklessness, spending the little money I had on another book. As he began wrapping the volumes in brown paper and string, I heard a voice I recognised calling my name. ‘Monsieur Hassan,’ I said, surprised when he, yet again, took my hand and kissed it. I flushed immediately and the bookseller smirked. They then began a conversation in French that I could not follow, but the subject matter soon became clear. ‘I see you have purchased my Baudelaire,’ he said, with a devilish smile. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ ‘I told my friend here to keep this translation for me, but I see he has sold it to you … for a much higher price.’ The implication was not lost on me, that I was a silly woman who’d be taken for a fool. I chose to ignore it. ‘Well then, it is not your Baudelaire but mine,’ I said, taking the package and heading back towards my hotel. ‘At least allow me to offer you dinner tonight, as a felicitation for your excellent bargain,’ he said, his long strides easily catching up with me. ‘No thank you, I cannot accept such an unsuitable invitation. We are strangers.’ ‘Oof,’ he said, mockingly taking a dagger to the heart. ‘But we are not strangers and it would seem that you are alone in Paris …’ ‘I’m not alone,’ I said, defensively. ‘I’m staying with my … aunt.’ ‘Ah, I see,’ he said, nodding and almost admitting defeat. ‘Alors, if you change your mind, Mademoiselle Opaline,’ he added, handing me his card. ‘I will not forget this slight easily but, fortunately for you, I have a forgiving nature.’ With a tip of his hat, he disappeared down a side street and I was left standing there, feeling furious. He was an infuriating, pompous, arrogant man. And I loathed him. And yet I put his card in my pocket rather than throwing it in the Seine. That evening, I wrote one of the postcards I had bought at the bookstall to my Jane. I knew I could trust her to keep my whereabouts a secret. The thing about Jane was, you could hear her laugh before you ever saw her. She adored the outdoors, which Mother declared ‘unladylike’. I missed her terribly, but writing to her closed the distance between us, if only


to rouse it. The whip flashed out, here and there, on its merciless errands. John Thornton compressed his lips. Sol-leks was the first to crawl to his feet. Teek followed. Joe came next, yelping with pain. Pike made painful efforts. Twice he fell over, when half up, and on the third attempt managed to rise. Buck made no effort. He lay quietly where he had fallen. The lash bit into him again and again, but he neither whined nor struggled. Several times Thornton started, as though to speak, but changed his mind. A moisture came into his eyes, and, as the whipping continued, he arose and walked irresolutely up and down. This was the first time Buck had failed, in itself a sufficient reason to drive Hal into a rage. He exchanged the whip for the customary club. Buck refused to move under the rain of heavier blows which now fell upon him. Like his mates, he barely able to get up, but, unlike them, he had made up his mind not to get up. He had a vague feeling of impending doom. This had been strong upon him when he pulled in to the bank, and it had not departed from him. What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him. He refused to stir. So greatly had he suffered, and so far gone was he, that the blows did not hurt much. And as they continued to fall upon him, the spark of life within flickered and went down. It was nearly out. He felt strangely numb. As though from a great distance, he was aware that he was being beaten. The last sensations of pain left him. He no longer felt anything, though very faintly he could hear the impact of the club upon his body. But it was no longer his body, it seemed so far away. And then, suddenly, without warning, uttering a cry that was inarticulate and more like the cry of an animal, John Thornton sprang upon the man who wielded the club. Hal was hurled backward, as though struck by a failing tree. Mercedes screamed. Charles looked on wistfully, wiped his watery eyes, but did not get up because of his stiffness. John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak. "If you strike that dog again, I'll kill you," he at last managed to say in a choking voice. "It's my dog," Hal replied, wiping the blood from his mouth as he came back. "Get out of my way, or I'll fix you. I'm going to Dawson." Thornton stood between him and Buck, and evinced no intention of getting out of the way. Hal drew his long hunting-knife. Mercedes screamed. cried, laughed, and manifested the chaotic abandonment of hysteria. Thornton rapped Hal's knuckles with the axe-handle, knocking the knife to the ground. He rapped his knuckles again as


braced herself. “While Enva and her music have convinced a few weak-minded individuals to enlist, most of us here want to focus on other matters. So don’t let this war talk fool you. It’ll all blow over soon. Keep up the good work and come to me at once if someone from the Inkridden Tribune approaches you about this.” Iris curled her hand into a fist under her desk until she could feel the bite of her fingernails. Forest was the furthest thing from a weak-minded individual. When Dacre had started attacking town after town last summer, the chancellor and residents of Western Borough had sent out a call for help. He is overtaking us! they had cried, the words traveling through crackling telephone wires. He is killing us if we don’t agree to bow to him, to fight for him. We need aid! Sometimes Iris still felt shame when she thought of how slow people in the east had been to answer that cry. But the ugly truth was the denizens of Oath hadn’t believed it when the news broke of Dacre’s return. Not until Enva’s music began to trickle through the streets, woven with the revelation. It had been the Southern and Central Boroughs to respond first, assuming if they sent a few auxiliary forces, Dacre could be overcome before he razed the west to the ground. They underestimated him. They underestimated the number of devout people who would choose to fight for Dacre. That was the beginning of the war. It unfolded rapidly, ruthlessly. While Oath was sleeping, the west was burning. And yet despite the countless dark kilometers that stretched between the east and the west, Forest was one of the first to enlist. Iris wondered where he was at that very moment. Sleeping in a cave, hiding in a trench, wounded in a hospital, shackled in the enemy’s camp. All while she sat safely at her desk, typing up classifieds, obituaries, and articles. She wondered if he was still breathing. Zeb called her into his office an hour later. “I’ll give you three days, Winnow,” he said, fingers steepled over his desk. “Three days to write an essay, topic of your choosing. If it’s better than Kitt’s, I’ll publish it and seriously consider you for the column.” She could hardly believe him. An open assignment. He rarely gave those out. But then she remembered what he had said earlier, and she nearly spoke her mind. I plan to write about those weak-minded individuals. “Winnow?” Iris realized she was frowning; her jaw was clenched. “Yes, thank you, sir.” She forced a smile and returned to her desk. She couldn’t afford to lose this promotion. Which meant she couldn’t afford to upset Zeb with her essay. She needed to write something he would want to publish. This open assignment suddenly felt very narrow indeed. “There you are.” Roman’s voice caught her on the way out of the lobby, just as dusk fell. Iris startled when he seamlessly fell into stride beside her. “What do you want, Kitt?” she asked


her to converse on the important subject. Apologies for her seemingly ungracious silence in their first reception, and the warmest expressions of the gratitude she was always feeling towards herself and Mr. Weston, must necessarily open the cause; but when these effusions were put by, they had talked a good deal of the present and of the future state of the engagement. Mrs. Weston was convinced that such conversation must be the greatest relief to her companion, pent up within her own mind as every thing had so long been, and was very much pleased with all that she had said on the subject. "On the misery of what she had suffered, during the concealment of so many months," continued Mrs. Weston, "she was energetic. This was one of her expressions. `I will not say, that since I entered into the engagement I have not had some happy moments; but I can say, that I have never known the blessing of one tranquil hour:'-- and the quivering lip, Emma, which uttered it, was an attestation that I felt at my heart." "Poor girl!" said Emma. "She thinks herself wrong, then, for having consented to a private engagement?" "Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is disposed to blame herself. `The consequence,' said she, `has been a state of perpetual suffering to me; and so it ought. But after all the punishment that misconduct can bring, it is still not less misconduct. Pain is no expiation. I never can be blameless. I have been acting contrary to all my sense of right; and the fortunate turn that every thing has taken, and the kindness I am now receiving, is what my conscience tells me ought not to be.' `Do not imagine, madam,' she continued, `that I was taught wrong. Do not let any reflection fall on the principles or the care of the friends who brought me up. The error has been all my own; and I do assure you that, with all the excuse that present circumstances may appear to give, I shall yet dread making the story known to Colonel Campbell.'" "Poor girl!" said Emma again. "She loves him then excessively, I suppose. It must have been from attachment only, that she could be led to form the engagement. Her affection must have overpowered her judgment." "Yes, I have no doubt of her being extremely attached to him." "I am afraid," returned Emma, sighing, "that I must often have contributed to make her unhappy." "On your side, my love, it was very innocently done. But she probably had something of that in her thoughts, when alluding to the misunderstandings which he had given us hints of before. One natural consequence of the evil she had involved herself in," she said, "was that of making her unreasonable. The consciousness of having done amiss, had exposed her to a thousand inquietudes, and made her captious and irritable to a degree that must have been-- that had been--hard for him to bear. `I did not make the allowances,' said she,


anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and


this…cub…into my hands.” “Yeah.” “You understand that once he is in my keeping, your control of his ultimate destiny will be limited.” “I do. I need to talk to him in a quiet place, Mr. Nugent. A full and frank discussion is necessary between us. We’re past the point where we can just hug it out.” “And after?” “I would not expect to socialise with him any more.” “This…is not an inconsiderable request, Mr. Sounder.” “Let’s be straight, Mr. Nugent. You and I don’t make inconsiderable requests of one another, now, do we?” “I ask you for a liver, you bring me a man.” “He does include a liver.” “I am not sure that I wish one quite so entailed, sir.” I take a breath and I let him have it. “Mr. Nugent, I may or may not know where that item you are looking for is, but I will tell you up-front that I do know why you want it. I know what it means.” Silence. “Your friend Mr. Zoegar, he was of the opinion that you and I could not trust one another. I took that to mean you would never trust me, but now it seems you sought to have me do something with consequences far beyond what you led me to believe. That is not the act of a friend, sir. Now, this situation we are all in is complex and delicate, and right now I feel a broad disaffection with almost all parties to the negotiation. We can proceed on that basis into the next stage, or you and I can step together a little more. I’m right here offering you the opportunity to restore the goodwill between us. What do you say?” “Mr. Zoegar would use the word ‘consilience’ to describe what you propose, Mr. Sounder. A jumping together of destinies.” “Well, for the next half hour, I won’t make any firm decisions about which way my destiny is going to jump. After that, I’ll figure I’m on my own, and things could get untidy.” There’s a pause during which I assume Lyman Nugent considers the state of my affairs before they become untidy: a scientist murdered under an alias, a cage match, a gunshot wound, a dead lounge singer, a dead police officer, an exploded police station, stolen internal organs containing encrypted nuclear grade kompromat, and now my would-be murderer, my ex-girlfriend’s cousin and by definition one of the most powerful men in the world, mutilated, bleeding and pissed off on my office carpet. Figure Nugent likes all that even less than I do. “I shall be delighted to accept your kind invitation, Mr. Sounder. See you in twenty minutes or so.” “See you then.” He hangs up, and I turn and look down at Maurice Tonfamecasca. “Fuck you, Sounder.” “Maurice, you came to my house. Now you’ve got nineteen minutes to persuade me we can forge an eternal friendship. After that it’s out of my hands.” Maurice smack-talks me for eighteen straight minutes and ten seconds. When Zoegar and a few friends arrive with


and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to murmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on every side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they felt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes muttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new forms of sublimity. After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the hills. As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements and towers to the splendour


Leda’s soothing herbs, but the baby stares back at her, delighted and a bit defiant, his tiny hands reaching for her face. And when he gets tired, he cries. But when Tantalus rocks him, when he kisses him, he relaxes. The elders welcomed him soon after he was born. They took him naked as he was and brought him to Mount Taygetus. The baby kicked and wailed but he was safe. Safe because he was healthy. The elders checked him and found him perfect, strong. She walks for hours, carrying him in her arms. He is a curious child. She shows him flowers, takes each petal and holds it to his face. Crocuses, laurel, lilies, anemones. She tells him stories about them. The Phoenician princess Europa was lured into Zeus’s arms when he breathed a crocus from his mouth; the nymph Daphne turned into a laurel tree to hide from Apollo, who desired her; the goddess Persephone was abducted by Hades, king of the underworld, while picking lilies in a meadow. The baby likes the anemones most, so Clytemnestra tells him of Adonis slain by a boar and Aphrodite who loved him, remembering when she and Tantalus spoke of the myth on their first night together. Leda loves the baby very much. She takes him in her arms when Clytemnestra is too tired and lets him play with her earrings, shiny miracles in his eyes. She becomes the woman she was when Phoebe and Philonoe were born, when she would spend her days singing and talking to them, their small heads in her hands. It is a joy for Clytemnestra to see her mother like this, to see the softness behind the strength, the eyes shining with purpose. When Timandra touches the baby’s feet, Leda whispers, “Be careful. Babies are fragile.” When Clytemnestra has fed him, Leda tucks him in a blanket and traces his tiny features with her finger: eyes, nose, lips, ears. Tantalus starts planning their trip to Maeonia. He sends a messenger to the port to carry the news to the other side of the Aegean Sea. An heir is born and the king is ready to return, the queen at his side. * * * She is sitting in a corner of the town square, lulling the baby under the shade of an oak. She has escaped the dining hall in an effort to avoid Agamemnon and Menelaus; she doesn’t like the way they glance at the baby, with a mixture of coldness and distaste. Sometimes it looks almost like pity. “We are leaving soon,” she tells him, and he opens his eyes wide, smiling. “We are going to your father’s land.” It is quiet here. Two young women are passing, jugs filled with water on their shoulders, a dog following them, licking their ankles. A man is gathering baskets of olives and onions outside his door. The smells dance in the air, filling the square, and a child peeps out a window, a hungry look on his face. Clytemnestra lifts her eyes. Helen is walking toward the


was still necessary for human beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer necessary for them to live at different social or economic levels. Therefore, from the point of view of the new groups who were on the point of seizing power, human equality was no longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be averted. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society was in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it. The idea of an earthly paradise in which men should live together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and without brute labour, had haunted the human imagination for thousands of years. And this vision had had a certain hold even on the groups who actually profited by each historical change. The heirs of the French, English, and American revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about the rights of man, freedom of speech, equality before the law, and the like, and have even allowed their conduct to be influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth decade of the twentieth century all the main currents of political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise had been discredited at exactly the file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (111 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt moment when it became realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever name it called itself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And in the general hardening of outlook that set in round about 1930, practices which had been long abandoned, in some cases for hundreds of years--imprisonment without trial, the use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the deportation of whole populations--not only became common again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who considered themselves enlightened and progressive. It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully worked-out political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had long been obvious. What kind of people would control this world had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists, technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, sociologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These people, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of the working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world of monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling groups were always infected to some extent by


time for Dill, and I folded myself inside the tire. Until it happened I did not realize that Jem was offended by my contradicting him on Hot Steams, and that he was patiently awaiting an opportunity to reward me. He did, by pushing the tire down the sidewalk with all the force in his body. Ground, sky and houses melted into a mad palette, my ears throbbed, I was suffocating. I could not put out my hands to stop, they were wedged between my chest and knees. I could only hope that Jem would outrun the tire and me, or that I would be stopped by a bump in the sidewalk. I heard him behind me, chasing and shouting. The tire bumped on gravel, skeetered across the road, crashed into a barrier and popped me like a cork onto pavement. Dizzy and nauseated, I lay on the cement and shook my head still, pounded my ears to silence, and heard Jem's voice: "Scout, get away from there, come on!" I raised my head and stared at the Radley Place steps in front of me. I froze. "Come on, Scout, don't just lie there!" Jem was screaming. "Get up, can'tcha?" I got to my feet, trembling as I thawed. "Get the tire!" Jem hollered. "Bring it with you! Ain't you got any sense at all?" When I was able to navigate, I ran back to them as fast as my shaking knees would carry me. "Why didn't you bring it?" Jem yelled. "Why don't you get it?" I screamed. Jem was silent. "Go on, it ain't far inside the gate. Why, you even touched the house once, remember?" Jem looked at me furiously, could not decline, ran down the sidewalk, treaded water at the gate, then dashed in and retrieved the tire. "See there?" Jem was scowling triumphantly. "Nothin' to it. I swear, Scout, sometimes you act so much like a girl it's mortifyin'." There was more to it than he knew, but I decided not to tell him. Calpurnia appeared in the front door and yelled, "Lemonade time! You all get in outa that hot sun 'fore you fry alive!" Lemonade in the middle of the morning was a summertime ritual. Calpurnia set a pitcher and three glasses on the porch, then went about her business. Being out of Jem's good graces did not worry me especially. Lemonade would restore his good humor. Jem gulped down his second glassful and slapped his chest. "I know what we are going to play," he announced. "Something new, something different." "What?" asked Dill. "Boo Radley." Jem's head at times was transparent: he had thought that up to make me understand he wasn't afraid of Radleys in any shape or form, to contrast his own fearless heroism with my cowardice. "Boo Radley? How?" asked Dill. Jem said, "Scout, you can be Mrs. Radley-" "I declare if I will. I don't think-" "'Smatter?" said Dill. "Still scared?" "He can get out at night when we're all asleep...." I said. Jem hissed. "Scout, how's he gonna know what


there was no question that they would go. They spent the first two years of their marriage there before relocating to Seattle, the city of my mother’s dreams, where she worked as a respiratory therapist and he decided to enter a restaurant-management certificate program. It seemed like a promising career change; my father had seen other friends move into the service industry, and they assured him that he would be great at it. A regional pizza chain soon hired him to manage one of its new locations in southern Oregon. My parents found their new home a bit quiet compared with Seattle and far less beautiful than Alaska, and did not expect to stay in the region for long. But transfers and job opportunities in Portland, Denver, and Boise didn’t come through, and then my mother’s parents moved into a small house across town, giving them another tether to the area—and a future child-care provider in my energetic grandmother. In July 1981, they drove up to Seattle to adopt a ten-week-old Korean girl some friends had told them about, born severely premature to an immigrant family that did not believe they could raise a medically complex child. The doctors told my adoptive parents that I would have multiple disabilities and might never live independently, but they had spent weeks praying about the adoption and believed that I was meant to be theirs. Though they had initially wondered how their families would react to having an Asian child in the family, they stopped worrying when my grandmother charged them to go get that baby girl and bring her home to us. Given my history, they weren’t surprised when I crawled and walked later than average; they were surprised that by age two I spoke in paragraphs and was able to memorize anything that was read to me. Every day was a ceaseless drumbeat of questions and observations: why this, why that, I saw, I heard, I want to tell you, did you notice, do you think . . . ? A neighbor with four children jokingly told my mother that if I had been her first, she would have stopped at one. They were still adjusting to their new life as parents when Dad’s mother fell ill again, her body rejecting its foreign organ. My father took me to Cleveland to see her. In photos from that visit, I am a chubby, happy one-year-old in a flowered blouse and a blue corduroy jumper, no longer small for my age, boasting a toothy grin, chipmunk cheeks, and black hair that sticks straight up in defiance of my parents’ styling efforts—no one had ever told them about Asian baby hair. My grandmother, who looks so much like my father with her wide smile, broad nose, and brown hair so dark it could almost be black like mine, reaches toward me as Dad props me up on her hospital bed. He must have known that the trip was an introduction as well as a goodbye. As grieved as he would be when his mother died a


was a little one an' he began to make friends with it an' give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it. And it got to like him so it follows him about an' it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes him." Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one. So she began to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as she had never before been interested in any one but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in. It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast. But she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate Martha set before her. "I don't want it," she said. "Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously. "No." "Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o' treacle on it or a bit o' sugar." "I don't want it," repeated Mary. "Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table they'd clean it bare in five minutes." "Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes." "I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance. Martha looked indignant. "Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good bread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores." "Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary. "It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I get my day out once a month same as th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for mother an' give her a day's rest." Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade. "You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha. "It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat." Mary went to the window. There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry. "Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha' got to do?" Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement. Perhaps it would be


God' sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them. Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me. A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. THERE IS NOT IN THIS WIDE WORLD A VALLEE. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies. That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in their mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began. --Up the Boers! --Three cheers for De Wet! --We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree. Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high. Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis


it never occurred to him that Fanny Price was consumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else's tuition with ever-increasing anger. "You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here," she said bitterly, "and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw me aside, like an old glove"--she repeated the stale metaphor with satisfaction--"like an old glove. All right, I don't care, but I'm not going to be made a fool of another time." There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made Philip angry enough to answer what first came into his head. "Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased you." She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque. Philip, not knowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. He was uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he was sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would take the opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak to him, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, he was somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. He had been a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed over him. She was an extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio at eight o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in position; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after hour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clock struck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it the smallest approach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the young persons were able after some months to arrive. She wore every day the same ugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hem and with the raggedness, which Philip had noticed the first time he saw her, still unmended. But one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether she might speak to him afterwards. "Of course, as much as you like," smiled Philip. "I'll wait behind at twelve." He went to her when the day's work was over. "Will you walk a little bit with me?" she said, looking away from him with embarrassment. "Certainly." They walked for two or three minutes in silence. "D'you remember what you said to me the other day?" she asked then on a sudden. "Oh, I say, don't let's quarrel," said Philip. "It really isn't worth while." She gave a quick, painful inspiration. "I don't want to quarrel with you. You're the only friend I had in Paris. I thought you rather liked me. I felt there was something between us. I was drawn towards you--you know what I mean, your club-foot."


precisely the odd absence of surprise in her that gave him the sense of her having been plucked out of a very maelstrom: the things she took for granted gave the measure of those she had rebelled against. Archer had left her with the conviction that Count Olenski's accusation was not unfounded. The mysterious person who figured in his wife's past as "the secretary" had probably not been unrewarded for his share in her escape. The conditions from which she had fled were intolerable, past speaking of, past believing: she was young, she was frightened, she was desperate-- what more natural than that she should be grateful to her rescuer? The pity was that her gratitude put her, in the law's eyes and the world's, on a par with her abominable husband. Archer had made her understand this, as he was bound to do; he had also made her understand that simplehearted kindly New York, on whose larger charity she had apparently counted, was precisely the place where she could least hope for indulgence. To have to make this fact plain to her--and to witness her resigned acceptance of it--had been intolerably painful to him. He felt himself drawn to her by obscure feelings of jealousy and pity, as if her dumbly- confessed error had put her at his mercy, humbling yet endearing her. He was glad it was to him she had revealed her secret, rather than to the cold scrutiny of Mr. Letterblair, or the embarrassed gaze of her family. He immediately took it upon himself to assure them both that she had given up her idea of seeking a divorce, basing her decision on the fact that she had understood the uselessness of the proceeding; and with infinite relief they had all turned their eyes from the "unpleasantness" she had spared them. "I was sure Newland would manage it," Mrs. Welland had said proudly of her future son-in-law; and old Mrs. Mingott, who had summoned him for a confidential interview, had congratulated him on his cleverness, and added impatiently: "Silly goose! I told her myself what nonsense it was. Wanting to pass herself off as Ellen Mingott and an old maid, when she has the luck to be a married woman and a Countess!" These incidents had made the memory of his last talk with Madame Olenska so vivid to the young man that as the curtain fell on the parting of the two actors his eyes filled with tears, and he stood up to leave the theatre. In doing so, he turned to the side of the house behind him, and saw the lady of whom he was thinking seated in a box with the Beauforts, Lawrence Lefferts and one or two other men. He had not spoken with her alone since their evening together, and had tried to avoid being with her in company; but now their eyes met, and as Mrs. Beaufort recognised him at the same time, and made her languid little gesture of invitation, it was impossible not to go into the box. Beaufort


frailties of his youth, and seldom thought of it again. We leave the Judge to his repose. He could not be styled fortunate at the hour of death. Unknowingly, he was a childless man, while striving to add more wealth to his only child's inheritance. Hardly a week after his decease, one of the Cunard steamers brought intelligence of the death, by cholera, of Judge Pyncheon's son, just at the point of embarkation for his native land. By this misfortune Clifford became rich; so did Hepzibah; so did our little village maiden, and, through her, that sworn foe of wealth and all manner of conservatism, --the wild reformer,--Holgrave! It was now far too late in Clifford's life for the good opinion of society to be worth the trouble and anguish of a formal vindication. What he needed was the love of a very few; not the admiration, or even the respect, of the unknown many. The latter might probably have been won for him, had those on whom the guardianship of his welfare had fallen deemed it advisable to expose Clifford to a miserable resuscitation of past ideas, when the condition of whatever comfort he might expect lay in the calm of forgetfulness. After such wrong as he had suffered, there is no reparation. The pitiable mockery of it, which the world might have been ready enough to offer, coming so long after the agony had done its utmost work, would have been fit only to provoke bitterer laughter than poor Clifford was ever capable of. It is a truth (and it would be a very sad one but for the higher hopes which it suggests) that no great mistake, whether acted or endured, in our mortal sphere, is ever really set right. Time, the continual vicissitude of circumstances, and the invariable inopportunity of death, render it impossible. If, after long lapse of years, the right seems to be in our power, we find no niche to set it in. The better remedy is for the sufferer to pass on, and leave what he once thought his irreparable ruin far behind him. The shock of Judge Pyncheon's death had a permanently invigorating and ultimately beneficial effect on Clifford. That strong and ponderous man had been Clifford's nightmare. There was no free breath to be drawn, within the sphere of so malevolent an influence. The first effect of freedom, as we have witnessed in Clifford's aimless flight, was a tremulous exhilaration. Subsiding from it, he did not sink into his former intellectual apathy. He never, it is true, attained to nearly the full measure of what might have been his faculties. But he recovered enough of them partially to light up his character, to display some outline of the marvellous grace that was abortive in it, and to make him the object of No less deep, although less melancholy interest than heretofore. He was evidently happy. Could we pause to give another picture of his daily life, with all the appliances now at command to gratify his instinct for the Beautiful, the garden


man did not move. Something began to trickle on the floor. He waited for a moment, still pressing the head down. Then he threw the knife on the table, and listened. He could hear nothing, but the drip, drip on the threadbare carpet. He opened the door, and went out on the landing. The house was quite quiet. No one was stirring. He took out the key, and returned to the room, locking himself in as he did so. The thing was still seated in the chair, straining over the table with bowed head, and humped back, and long fantastic arms. Had it not been for the red jagged tear in the neck, and the clotted black pool that slowly widened on the table, one would have said that the man was simply asleep. How quickly it had all been done! He felt strangely calm, and, walking over to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the balcony. The wind had blown the fog away, and the sky was like a monstrous peacock's tail, starred with myriads of golden eyes. He looked down, and saw the policeman going his rounds and flashing a bull's-eye lantern on the doors of the silent houses. The crimson spot of a prowling hansom gleamed at the corner, and then vanished. A woman in a ragged shawl was creeping round by the railings, staggering as she went. Now and then she stopped, and peered back. Once, she began to sing in a hoarse voice. The policeman strolled over and said something to her. She stumbled away, laughing. A bitter blast swept across the Square. The gas-lamps flickered, and became blue, and the leafless trees shook their black iron branches as if in pain. He shivered, and went back, closing the window behind him. He passed to the door, turned the key, and opened it. He did not even glance at the murdered man. He felt that the secret of the whole thing was not to realize the situation. The friend who had painted [85] the fatal portrait, the portrait to which all his misery had been due, had gone out of his life. That was enough. Then he remembered the lamp. It was a rather curious one of Moorish workmanship, made of dull silver inlaid with arabesques of burnished steel. Perhaps it might be missed by his servant, and questions would be asked. He turned back, and took it from the table. How still the man was! How horribly white the long hands looked! He was like a dreadful wax image. He locked the door behind him, and crept quietly down-stairs. The wood-work creaked, and seemed to cry out as if in pain. He stopped several times, and waited. No: everything was still. It was merely the sound of his own footsteps. When he reached the library, he saw the bag and coat in the corner. They must be hidden away somewhere. He unlocked a secret press that was in the wainscoting, and put them into it. He could easily burn them afterwards. Then he pulled


humor whatsoever. "Your wishes are not my concern. On your feet, or I'll have you carried." Tyrion clambered awkwardly to his feet. "A cold night," he said casually, "and the High Hall is so drafty. I don't wish to catch a chill. Mord, if you would be so good, fetch my cloak." The gaoler squinted at him, face dull with suspicion. "My cloak," Tyrion repeated. "The shadowskin you took from me for safekeeping. You recall." "Get him the damnable cloak," Ser Vardis said. Mord did not dare grumble. He gave Tyrion a glare that promised future retribution, yet he went for the cloak. When he draped it around his prisoner's neck, Tyrion smiled. "My thanks. I shall think of you whenever I wear it." He flung the trailing end of the long fur over his right shoulder, and felt warm for the first time in days. "Lead on, Ser Vardis." The High Hall of the Arryns was aglow with the light of fifty torches, burning in the sconces along the walls. The Lady Lysa wore black silk, with the moon-and-falcon sewn on her breast in pearls. Since she did not look the sort to join the Night's Watch, Tyrion could only imagine that she had decided mourning clothes were appropriate garb for a confession. Her long auburn hair, woven into an elaborate braid, fell across her left shoulder. The taller throne beside her was 368 GEORGE R.R. MARTIN empty; no doubt the little Lord of the Eyrie was off shaking in his sleep. Tyrion was thankful for that much, at least. He bowed deeply and took a moment to glance around the hall. Lady Arryn had summoned her knights and retainers to hear his confession, as he had hoped. He saw Ser Brynden Tully's craggy face and Lord Nestor Royce's bluff one. Beside Nestor stood a younger man with fierce black side-whiskers who could only be his heir, Ser Albar. Most of the principal houses of the Vale were represented. Tyrion noted Ser Lyn Corbray, slender as a sword, Lord Hunter with his gouty legs, the widowed Lady Waynwood surrounded by her sons. Others sported sigils he did not know; broken lance, green viper, burning tower, winged chalice. Among the lords of the Vale were several of his companions from the high road; Ser Rodrik Cassel, pale from half-healed wounds, stood with Ser Willis Wode beside him. Marillion the singer had found a new woodharp. Tyrion smiled; whatever happened here tonight, he did not wish it to happen in secret, and there was no one like a singer for spreading a story near and far. In the rear of the hall, Bronn lounged beneath a pillar. The freerider's black eyes were fixed on Tyrion, and his hand lay lightly on the pommel of his sword. Tyrion gave him a long look, wondering . . . Catelyn Stark spoke first. "You wish to confess your crimes, we are told." "I do, my lady," Tyrion answered. Lysa Arryn smiled at her sister. "The sky cells always break them. The gods can see them there,


quoth good Uncle Venner, quite overcome, "if you were to speak to a young man as you do to an old one, his chance of keeping his heart another minute would not be worth one of the buttons on my waistcoat! And--soul alive!--that great sigh, which you made me heave, has burst off the very last of them! But, never mind! It was the happiest sigh I ever did heave; and it seems as if I must have drawn in a gulp of heavenly breath, to make it with. Well, well, Miss Phoebe! They'll miss me in the gardens hereabouts, and round by the back doors; and Pyncheon Street, I'm afraid, will hardly look the same without old Uncle Venner, who remembers it with a mowing field on one side, and the garden of the Seven Gables on the other. But either I must go to your country-seat, or you must come to my farm,--that's one of two things certain; and I leave you to choose which!" "Oh, come with us, by all means, Uncle Venner!" said Clifford, who had a remarkable enjoyment of the old man's mellow, quiet, and simple spirit. "I want you always to be within five minutes, saunter of my chair. You are the only philosopher I ever knew of whose wisdom has not a drop of bitter essence at the bottom!" "Dear me!" cried Uncle Venner, beginning partly to realize what manner of man he was. "And yet folks used to set me down among the simple ones, in my younger days! But I suppose I am like a Roxbury russet,--a great deal the better, the longer I can be kept. Yes; and my words of wisdom, that you and Phoebe tell me of, are like the golden dandelions, which never grow in the hot months, but may be seen glistening among the withered grass, and under the dry leaves, sometimes as late as December. And you are welcome, friends, to my mess of dandelions, if there were twice as many!" A plain, but handsome, dark-green barouche had now drawn up in front of the ruinous portal of the old mansion-house. The party came forth, and (with the exception of good Uncle Venner, who was to follow in a few days) proceeded to take their places. They were chatting and laughing very pleasantly together; and--as proves to be often the case, at moments when we ought to palpitate with sensibility--Clifford and Hepzibah bade a final farewell to the abode of their forefathers, with hardly more emotion than if they had made it their arrangement to return thither at tea-time. Several children were drawn to the spot by so unusual a spectacle as the barouche and pair of gray horses. Recognizing little Ned Higgins among them, Hepzibah put her hand into her pocket, and presented the urchin, her earliest and staunchest customer, with silver enough to people the Domdaniel cavern of his interior with as various a procession of quadrupeds as passed into the ark. Two men were passing, just as the barouche drove off. "Well, Dixey," said


all kept fast by the binding cords. The poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and had dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor, Surgeon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East Elliot Place, who came immediately after me, declared, after making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. The coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. The fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some complications later on, in the Admiralty Court, for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. Already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statues of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a dead hand. It is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death, a steadfastness as noble as that of the young Casabianca, and placed in the mortuary to await inquest. Already the sudden storm is passing,and its fierceness is abating. Crowds are scattering backward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the Yorkshire wolds. I shall send, in time for your next issue, further details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into harbour in the storm. 9 August.--The sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. It turns out that the schooner is Russian from Varna, and is called the Demeter. She is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount of cargo, a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould. This cargo was consigned to a Whitby solicitor, Mr. S.F. Billington, of 7, The Crescent, who this morning went aboard and took formal possession of the goods consigned to him. The Russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. Nothing is talked about here today except the strange coincidence. The officials of the Board of Trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with existing regulations. As the matter is to be a `nine days wonder', they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of other complaint. A good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more