VibrantVista/gte-large-en-v1.5-stylejudge
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With that chill and dread upon me, and the sheer rock all around, and the faint light heaving wavily on the silence of this gulf, I must have lost my wits and gone to the bottom, if there were any. But suddenly a robin sang (as they will do after dark, towards spring) in the brown fern and ivy behind me. I took it for our little Annie's voice (for she could call any robin), and gathering quick warm comfort, sprang up the steep way towards the starlight. Climbing back, as the stones glid down, I heard the cold greedy wave go japping, like a blind black dog, into the distance of arches and hollow depths of darkness. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME I can assure you, and tell no lie (as John Fry always used to say, when telling his very largest), that I scrambled back to the mouth of that pit as if the evil one had been after me. And sorely I repented now of all my boyish folly, or madness it might well be termed, in venturing, with none to help, and nothing to compel me, into that accursed valley. Once let me get out, thinks I, and if ever I get in again, without being cast in by neck and by crop, I will give our new-born donkey leave to set up for my schoolmaster. How I kept that resolution we shall see hereafter. It is enough for me now to tell how I escaped from the den that night. First I sat down in the little opening which Lorna had pointed out to me, and wondered whether she had meant, as bitterly occurred to me, that I should run down into the pit, and be drowned, and give no more trouble. But in less than half a minute I was ashamed of that idea, and remembered how she was vexed to think that even a loach should lose his life. And then I said to myself, "Now surely she would value me more than a thousand loaches; and what she said must be quite true about the way out of this horrible place. " Therefore I began to search with the utmost care and diligence, although my teeth were chattering, and all my bones beginning to ache with the chilliness and the wetness. Before very long the moon appeared, over the edge of the mountain, and among the trees at the top of it; and then I espied rough steps, and rocky, made as if with a sledge-hammer, narrow, steep, and far asunder, scooped here and there in the side of the entrance, and then round a bulge of the cliff, like the marks upon a great brown loaf, where a hungry child has picked at it. And higher up, where the light of the moon shone broader upon the precipice, there seemed to be a rude broken track, like the shadow of a crooked stick thrown upon a house-wall. Herein was small encouragement; and at first I was minded to lie down and die; but it seemed to come amiss to me. God has His time for all of us; but He seems to advertise us when He does not mean to do it. Moreover, I saw a movement of lights at the head of the valley, as if lanthorns were coming after me, and the nimbleness given thereon to my heels was in front of all meditation. Straightway I set foot in the lowest stirrup (as I might almost call it), and clung to the rock with my nails, and worked to make a jump into the second stirrup. And I compassed that too, with the aid of my stick; although, to tell you the truth, I was not at that time of life so agile as boys of smaller frame are, for my size was growing beyond my years, and the muscles not keeping time with it, and the joints of my bones not closely hinged, with staring at one another. But the third step-hole was the hardest of all, and the rock swelled out on me over my breast, and there seemed to be no attempting it, until I espied a good stout rope hanging in a groove of shadow, and just managed to reach the end of it. How I clomb up, and across the clearing, and found my way home through the Bagworthy forest, is more than I can remember now, for I took all the rest of it then as a dream, by reason of perfect weariness. And indeed it was quite beyond my hopes to tell so much as I have told, for at first beginning to set it down, it was all like a mist before me. Nevertheless, some parts grew clearer, as one by one I remembered them, having taken a little soft cordial, because the memory frightens me. For the toil of the water, and danger of labouring up the long cascade or rapids, and then the surprise of the fair young maid, and terror of the murderers, and desperation of getting away—all these are much to me even now, when I am a stout churchwarden, and sit by the side of my fire, after going through many far worse adventures, which I will tell, God willing. Only the labour of writing is such (especially so as to construe, and challenge a reader on parts of speech, and hope to be even with him); that by this pipe which I hold in my hand I ever expect to be beaten, as in the days when old Doctor Twiggs, if I made a bad stroke in my exercise, shouted aloud with a sour joy, "John Ridd, sirrah, down with your small-clothes! " Let that be as it may, I deserved a good beating that night, after making such a fool of myself, and grinding good fustian to pieces. But when I got home, all the supper was in, and the men sitting at the white table, and mother and Annie and Lizzie near by, all eager, and offering to begin (except, indeed, my mother, who was looking out at the doorway), and by the fire was Betty Muxworthy, scolding, and cooking, and tasting her work, all in a breath, as a man would say. I looked through the door from the dark by the wood-stack, and was half of a mind to stay out like a dog, for fear of the rating and reckoning; but the way my dear mother was looking about and the browning of the sausages got the better of me. But nobody could get out of me where I had been all the day and evening; although they worried me never so much, and longed to shake me to pieces, especially Betty Muxworthy, who never could learn to let well alone. Not that they made me tell any lies, although it would have served them right almost for intruding on other people's business; but that I just held my tongue, and ate my supper rarely, and let them try their taunts and jibes, and drove them almost wild after supper, by smiling exceeding knowingly. And indeed I could have told them things, as I hinted once or twice; and then poor Betty and our little Lizzie were so mad with eagerness, that between them I went into the fire, being thoroughly overcome with laughter and my own importance. Now what the working of my mind was (if, indeed it worked at all, and did not rather follow suit of body) it is not in my power to say; only that the result of my adventure in the Doone Glen was to make me dream a good deal of nights, which I had never done much before, and to drive me, with tenfold zeal and purpose, to the practice of bullet-shooting. Not that I ever expected to shoot the Doone family, one by one, or even desired to do so, for my nature is not revengeful; but that it seemed to be somehow my business to understand the gun, as a thing I must be at home with. I could hit the barn-door now capitally well with the Spanish match-lock, and even with John Fry's blunderbuss, at ten good land-yards distance, without any rest for my fusil. And what was very wrong of me, though I did not see it then, I kept John Fry there, to praise my shots, from dinner-time often until the grey dusk, while he all the time should have been at work spring-ploughing upon the farm. And for that matter so should I have been, or at any rate driving the horses; but John was by no means loath to be there, instead of holding the plough-tail.
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And then having gone so far with it, and finding me so complaisant, she must needs try to go a little further, and to lead me away from her own affairs, and into mine concerning Lorna. But although it was clever enough of her she was not deep enough for me there; and I soon discovered that she knew nothing, not even the name of my darling; but only suspected from things she had seen, and put together like a woman. Upon this I brought her back again to Tom Faggus and his doings. 'My poor Annie, have you really promised him to be his wife?' 'Then after all you have no reason, John, no particular reason, I mean, for slighting poor Sally Snowe so?' 'Without even asking mother or me! Oh, Annie, it was wrong of you!' 'But, darling, you know that mother wishes you so much to marry Sally; and I am sure you could have her to-morrow. She dotes on the very ground—' 'I dare say he tells you that, Annie, that he dotes on the ground you walk upon—but did you believe him, child?' 'You may believe me, I assure you, John, and half the farm to be settled upon her, after the old man's time; and though she gives herself little airs, it is only done to entice you; she has the very best hand in the dairy John, and the lightest at a turn-over cake—' 'Now, Annie, don't talk nonsense so. I wish just to know the truth about you and Tom Faggus. Do you mean to marry him?' 'I to marry before my brother, and leave him with none to take care of him! Who can do him a red deer collop, except Sally herself, as I can? Come home, dear, at once, and I will do you one; for you never ate a morsel of supper, with all the people you had to attend upon.' This was true enough; and seeing no chance of anything more than cross questions and crooked purposes, at which a girl was sure to beat me, I even allowed her to lead me home, with the thoughts of the collop uppermost. But I never counted upon being beaten so thoroughly as I was; for knowing me now to be off my guard, the young hussy stopped at the farmyard gate, as if with a brier entangling her, and while I was stooping to take it away, she looked me full in the face by the moonlight, and jerked out quite suddenly,— 'Can your love do a collop, John?' 'No, I should hope not,' I answered rashly; 'she is not a mere cook-maid I should hope. 'She is not half so pretty as Sally Snowe; I will answer for that,' said Annie. 'She is ten thousand times as pretty as ten thousand Sally Snowes,' I replied with great indignation. 'Oh, but look at Sally's eyes!' cried my sister rapturously. 'Look at Lorna Doone's,' said I; 'and you would never look again at Sally's.' Oh Lorna Doone. Lorna Doone!' exclaimed our Annie half-frightened, yet clapping her hands with triumph, at having found me out so: 'Lorna Doone is the lovely maiden, who has stolen poor somebody's heart so. Ah, I shall remember it; because it is so queer a name. But stop, I had better write it down. Lend me your hat, poor boy, to write on.' 'I have a great mind to lend you a box on the ear,' I answered her in my vexation, 'and I would, if you had not been crying so, you sly good-for-nothing baggage. As it is, I shall keep it for Master Faggus, and add interest for keeping. 'Oh no, John; oh no, John,' she begged me earnestly, being sobered in a moment. 'Your hand is so terribly heavy, John; and he never would forgive you; although he is so good-hearted, he cannot put up with an insult. Promise me, dear John, that you will not strike him; and I will promise you faithfully to keep your secret, even from mother, and even from Cousin Tom himself.' 'And from Lizzie; most of all, from Lizzie,' I answered very eagerly, knowing too well which of my relations would be hardest with me. 'Of course from little Lizzie,' said Annie, with some contempt; 'a young thing like her cannot be kept too long, in my opinion, from the knowledge of such subjects. And besides, I should be very sorry if Lizzie had the right to know your secrets, as I have, dearest John. Not a soul shall be the wiser for your having trusted me, John; although I shall be very wretched when you are late away at night, among those dreadful people. 'Well,' I replied, 'it is no use crying over spilt milk Annie. You have my secret, and I have yours; and I scarcely know which of the two is likely to have the worst time of it, when it comes to mother's ears. I could put up with perpetual scolding but not with mother's sad silence.' 'That is exactly how I feel, John.' and as Annie said it she brightened up, and her soft eyes shone upon me; 'but now I shall be much happier, dear; because I shall try to help you. No doubt the young lady deserves it, John. She is not after the farm, I hope?' 'She!' I exclaimed; and that was enough, there was so much scorn in my voice and face. 'Then, I am sure, I am very glad,' Annie always made the best of things; 'for I do believe that Sally Snowe has taken a fancy to our dairy-place, and the pattern of our cream-pans; and she asked so much about our meadows, and the colour of the milk—' 'Then, after all, you were right, dear Annie; it is the ground she dotes upon.' 'And the things that walk upon it,' she answered me with another kiss; 'Sally has taken a wonderful fancy to our best cow, "Nipple-pins." But she never shall have her now; what a consolation!' We entered the house quite gently thus, and found Farmer Nicholas Snowe asleep, little dreaming how his plans had been overset between us. And then Annie said to me very slyly, between a smile and a blush,— 'Don't you wish Lorna Doone was here, John, in the parlour along with mother; instead of those two fashionable milkmaids, as Uncle Ben will call them, and poor stupid Mistress Kebby?' 'That indeed I do, Annie. I must kiss you for only thinking of it. Dear me, it seems as if you had known all about us for a twelvemonth.' 'She loves you, with all her heart, John. No doubt about that of course.' And Annie looked up at me, as much as to say she would like to know who could help it. 'That's the very thing she won't do,' said I, knowing that Annie would love me all the more for it, 'she is only beginning to like me, Annie; and as for loving, she is so young that she only loves her grandfather. But I hope she will come to it by-and-by.' 'Of course she must,' replied my sister, 'it will be impossible for her to help it. Ah well! I don't know,' for I wanted more assurance of it. 'Maidens are such wondrous things!'' 'Not a bit of it,' said Annie, casting her bright eyes downwards: 'love is as simple as milking, when people know how to do it. But you must not let her alone too long; that is my advice to you. What a simpleton you must have been not to tell me long ago. I would have made Lorna wild about you, long before this time, Johnny. But now you go into the parlour, dear, while I do your collop. Faith Snowe is not come, but Polly and Sally. Sally has made up her mind to conquer you this very blessed evening, John. Only look what a thing of a scarf she has on; I should be quite ashamed to wear it. But you won't strike poor Tom, will you?' 'Not I, my darling, for your sweet sake.' And so dear Annie, having grown quite brave, gave me a little push into the parlour, where I was quite abashed to enter after all I had heard about Sally. And I made up my mind to examine her well, and try a little courting with her, if she should lead me on, that I might be in practice for Lorna.
| 1
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Historical fiction
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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
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17460
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840
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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)_[Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor]_1500_19
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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)_[Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor]_1500_65
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When just at dusk of that same day they discovered a steamer snugly moored to the bank, he read her name with a sinking heart, for, instead of Chimo, it was _St. Michaels_, which he knew to be the name of a boat belonging to a Catholic mission on the lower river. Moreover, she was boarded up and deserted. Seeing Jalap's expression of dismay, his companions hissed out mocking laughter and asked what else he could have expected, since the Fort Adams Indians had already pronounced that name so plainly that even a deaf man could have understood. That night in camp, the sailor declared his intention to begin the river descent at daybreak, to which the others merely exchanged meaningful glances and remained silent. By morning, after the sledges were loaded and the dogs harnessed, they realized the driver of the sled was missing. After the others cracked their whips and told him he had rightly chastised the poor man, they set off up the river, leaving poor Jalap standing helpless and alone on the bank. A few moments later, hearing a familiar whistle from the direction they had gone, the dogs chased after their vanished companions, hauling his entire outfit along. His feet, exhausted from weeks of unfamiliar snow‑shoeing that made every step a torment, made the lone man immediately see the futility of pursuit, and, with a heavy heart, he began to retrace his slow path back to Fort Adams. Upon reaching the mission, utterly exhausted and unable to push on, he seized possession of the missionary’s house. Suffering, penniless, friendless, and almost hopeless, he was trying to devise a plan for the future when the door opened; as he later quipped, “If the good little cherub who had just appeared to watch over poor Jack at sea had come in at that moment, I could not have been more pleased—to behold the blessed face of that precious young rascal, Phil Ryder.” After the three finished a sumptuous dinner, Jalap Coombs recounted the tale to Phil and Serge, savoring long, grateful puffs from his pipe—tobacco they had kindly supplied. After the story concluded, Phil indignantly demanded the names of the two white men who, though claiming to know him, had dared treat his old friend so shamefully. Simon Goldollar were the name of one. " " I might have known it――the sneak!" broke in Phil. " And the other are called Strengel. " " The very scoundrel that I set ashore from the Chimo for trying to blow her up!" cried Phil. " You remember, Serge?" " I should rather say I did!" replied the young Russo-American, his honest face flushing with anger. " But what are they going up the river for, Mr. Coombs?" " To spoil Cap'n Hamer's chance of doing any trading at Forty Mile, as far as I could make out," replied the mate. Oh, the villains!" exclaimed Phil. " They, too, enjoy a two‑day head start, even though you’re almost unfit for travel. Hold on, though! I have it! We can do the trick yet, and give them a lesson in minding their own business. Hurrah for our side, after all! Serge, hurrah! quick, before I fling something at you. " Jalap Coombs’s fourteen pairs of feet—
„Of course, Mr. Coombs, you can’t expect us to go back to St. Michaels now,” Phil began, easing into his plan to outwit Simon Goldollar and his unscrupulous companion. Why not?" demanded the sailor, who had not for a moment expected anything else. " Once I found you, I intended to bring you to St. Michaels and keep you there until your father arrives. Them's orders, and to disobey 'em would be mutiny, nigh as I kin make out. " " That would be all right if you had found us; but you haven't. " " Eh?" queried Jalap Coombs. " I hain't found ye?" " Certainly not," laughed Phil. " Instead of you finding us, we have found you. Had you struck us at Anvik, we might have returned with you, but since we now find you some four hundred miles away, we will certainly do nothing of the kind. To start, we owe a great debt to Captain Hamer, who—by the way—stands among the finest men I have ever met. In that moment, Phil recounted the harrowing ordeal he and Serge endured in the Bering Sea and their heroic rescue by Gerald Hamer, a tale the attentive listener heard for the very first time. "Now," the lad continued, "we left him still recovering from a serious illness and unfit to travel for several months." If he can't get word out to the coast before spring he will be a heavy loser. So Serge and I have undertaken to carry and deliver the message for him. Our entire outfit, down to the very clothing we wear, was furnished by him on that condition. It is also our duty to thwart the plans of his enemies—adversaries who are now, to a surprising extent, your own as well. So you see we are in honor bound to push on with all speed. Besides all this, we should reach Sitka well before my father can leave, thereby sparing him a long, tedious, and ultimately pointless journey. I'm not so sartain of that," demurred Jalap Coombs. " "Since you've been trying to make Sitka longer ever since I first met you—a venture that's been going on for a year now—none of it has come close to fruition yet." As my old friend Kite Roberson once said, “Jalap, my son, all our directions are set by circumstance; after all, they point straighter than a compass,” and I must admit that your present circumstances are clearly steering you straight toward Sitka. But how do ye propose to sarcumvent the villyans what run off with my dogs?" " Now you are talking straight business," laughed Phil. " From what I gather, those men’s goal is to secure the next season’s trade in the Yukon Valley—especially the Forty Mile diggings—by taking advance orders at prices lower than any the old company has ever offered. Even so, their rates will be steep, but with Gerald Hamer's list in hand I’m confident I can outbid them. Any advantage will be lost unless we arrive first; once the orders are placed and contracts signed, the others will mock our prices. So our only hope is to reach Forty Mile ahead of them. " " You can't get there without wings or steam," Jalap Coombs objected, "especially since they have gotten a two‑day head start." I wouldn't care if they had six days' start," answered Phil. " “I’m confident we can still beat them using only ordinary snow‑shoes, sledges, and everyday North American dogs.” They have gone around the great arctic bend of the Yukon, haven't they? They, too, have another journey of at least seven hundred miles to cover before reaching Forty Mile. Yes," replied Jalap. " They said as it were the only navigable channel. " " "Well, that’s not the case—I know of another route that’s just as good, and about two hundred miles shorter." There is a major river that rises in the southeast and joins the Yukon near this area, known as the Tanana. "That's right," said the sailor, “for I’ve already crossed its mouth twice, roughly halfway between here and where the St. Michaels is located.” Good enough," said Phil. " By following the Tanana for two or three hundred miles, then taking one of its eastern branches—perhaps the Gheesah—and crossing a divide, we can reach the headwaters of Forty Mile Creek. Sail downstream with the current, arrive at port with full sails, and seize the market before the enemy comes into view. exclaimed Jalap Coombs, enthusiastically, his practical mind quick to note the advantages of Phil's scheme. " But what's to become of me?" he added, anxiously. " Kin ye fit me out with a new pair of feet?" " Certainly we can," replied Phil, promptly. " We can fit you out with fourteen new pair, and will guarantee that, thus provided, you will be able to travel as fast as the rest of us.
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Mr. Holwell sent to Omichand in his prison and offered to release him if he would treat with the Nawab for us. But the Gentoo refused. All he would do was draft a missive to Manik Chand, soliciting his intervention on our behalf. Mr. Holwell hurled the letter across the wall into the enemy ranks, exclaiming, “By heaven!” I never imagined that Englishmen would be reduced to such humiliation. But it had no effect. With greater determination the enemy advanced, bringing bamboo ladders to scale the walls. Though we drove them away once more, we paid a dreadful price: twenty‑five of our bravest men were killed outright and another sixty wounded. It was there that I was wounded, but thanks to the fine fellow Bulger, who deftly turned aside a slashing scimitar with his hooked blade and gave my assailant the final blow. Bulger fought as a hero, and his very appearance—blackened by powder and stained with blood—seemed to compel every Moor who crossed his path to flee the fray. Even though the Nawab’s cannonshots merely irritated us without causing much harm, their incendiary arrows proved far more destructive, splashing into the thick of screaming women and children. My heart ached at the thought of innocent people suffering under our council’s weakness, incompetence, and neglect. May I never again witness or hear such heat, glare, hunger, uproar, and commotion. By noon yesterday, the fighting drew a brief quiet lull. The enemy remained outside the fort, though they had seized all the houses around. They raised a flag of truce, upon which Mr. Holwell wrote a letter asking them for terms. Yet it was but a ruse intended to deceive us. While we were resting, awaiting the outcome of the parley, the Moors burst from their hiding places and swarmed the fort’s eastern gate and the southwestern palisades. During that interval, many of our ordinary men had fallen asleep, which is truly lamentable. They were drunk, leaving us powerless to resist the invaders who scaled the roof of the godowns on the north wall with bamboo ladders and stormed into the fort. Most of the remaining Europeans gathered on the veranda in front of the barracks, between the great gate and the southeast bastion. Only one of us was wounded. We were unscathed: as soon as the enemy burst into our private rooms and began pillaging, the Nawab had apparently ordered us to be spared. At five o’clock he entered the fort on a brightly garbed litter, convened a durbar in our council chamber, and Mir Jafar bowed before him, lavishing him with complimentary praise of his great victory. Then the wretched one summoned Mr. Holwell. We bade him farewell, certain that we would never see him again. He returned to us shortly and warned that the Nawab was livid at the scant treasure he had found; the rumours from the French had led him to expect boundless riches. Omichand and Krishna Das had been released from prison, treated with great affability, and presented by the Nawab with siropas—robes of honour—a precious token of his favour. Nonetheless, Mr. Holwell assured us that the Nawab had pledged to spare us from harm. A guard of 500 gunmen stood over us, their matches burning, and as the sun neared setting men arrived with torches—though unnecessary—because a large part of the factory was aflame, and we feared we would suffocate. But shortly after, we were ordered to move into the barracks near the veranda where we had been standing. It was then that, by God's mercy, I was able to escape. I found myself at the farthest end of the veranda, the most distant spot from the barracks. Just as I was about to leave after resting, a guard stepped in front of me and whispered that I should hide behind the last of the thick pillars until he came for me. I recognized the man; he was an old peon of mine. Thanks to God for a loyal servant! With more dead than living, I obeyed his instructions. I lay there for hours, terrified of some unseen peril, unwilling to stir lest someone notice me, and bore the agony of my untreated wounds. Finally, the man appeared before me. "Sahib," he said, "you have been kind to me." I will save you. Come quickly. ' I rose and staggered after him. He showed me the dim routes out of the fort, past the new godown and the burying‑ground, and down to Chandpal ghat. There I met Mr. Toley, who was waiting with a boat; thanks to him and my faithful peon, I am now safe. Do you know what became of Bulger? asked Desmond. " He stays with the others, severely battered, a poor man. What fate will befall the prisoners? How many still remain? There are nearly a hundred and fifty. The Nawab has promised they shall suffer no harm, and after spending a night in the barracks I expect he will release them. We will head downriver until we reach the other vessels at Surman’s, and then, by heaven! I’ll see what I can do to remind Mr. Drake of his duty and persuade him to return and bring the Europeans back. Rest assured that Siraj‑ud‑daula’s actions will not go unanswered by vengeance. We have already dispatched letters to Madras; I expect that within two months aid will arrive, and we will then reproach the insolent young Nawab. Do you think he’ll keep his word and spare the prisoners from harm? I think so. He has caused no harm to Mr. Watts, whom he brought from Cossimbazar, and our people will be more valuable to him alive than dead. Yes; by tomorrow I trust that Mr. Holwell and the others will be safe aboard the ships, and I do not envy Mr. Drake’s bitter experience when the men he has deserted confront him. As Mr Merriman wove his tale, the Hormuzzeer glided slowly down the river. At Surman's Garden, roughly five miles south of Calcutta, the vessel joined the other British‑owned ships and settled into anchorage. A handful of gentlemen boarded, keen to hear the full account of the drama’s final scene. Mr. Merriman recounted all he knew, and each of them drew a deep sigh of relief upon learning that, even as prisoners, Mr. Holwell and the few who had remained steadfast at their posts had been assured of good treatment. During the day, the vessel sailed farther downriver to Budge Budge, passing through a brisk but ineffective burst of fire from Tanna Fort, now manned by the Nawab’s troops. While the Hormuzzeer was anchored at Budge Budge, Mr. Merriman outlined to Desmond the plans he had devised for him. The vessel, now fully laden, would immediately set sail for Penang. Mr. Merriman suggested that Desmond undertake the voyage. In his weakened state, the climate of Fulta—where the Europeans planned to remain until aid arrived from Madras—might prove fatal to him, while the sea air could aid his recovery. His portion of the Tremukji’s sale price, combined with the Gheria prize money, exceeded a thousand pounds—an amount his friend had already invested on his behalf. "As for myself," said Merriman, "I will stay." My injuries are minor; I am accustomed to the climate; though India has become repugnant to me, I will not leave Indian soil until I locate my dear wife and daughter. May God grant that, by the time you return, I will have some news of them. Desmond wanted to stay with the merchant, but he knew his frailty would render him useless, so he conceded to the plan. That same night, the fugitives were handed a report that froze their very blood. Messrs. Cooke and Lushington, who had remained steadfastly beside Mr. Holwell, stepped ashore in a small boat and boarded the Dodalay. Their appearance left every observer both awestruck and terrified. Mr. Cooke was a merchant, aged thirty-one; Mr. Lushington a writer in the Company's service, his age eighteen; but the events of one night had altered them almost beyond recognition.
| 0.4
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Adventure stories
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Munroe, Kirk
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Strang, Herbert
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59240
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41489
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Munroe, Kirk_[Idonia: A Romance of Old London]_1500_22_0.4
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Strang, Herbert_[One of Clive's Heroes: A Story of the Fight for India]_1500_69_0.9
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" "You won't be too early for me," he returned. "I was never much of a hand at sleeping, and as a rule the more tired I am the sooner I wake up. " I poured out a generous tot of whisky, into which I splashed about the same amount of soda. "That's my prescription," I said "Take it to your room and drink it off as soon as you get into bed. If you don't sleep then there must be something seriously wrong with you. " He accepted the tumbler with a laugh, and, having lit two candles, which Bascomb had placed upon a side table, I accompanied him up the staircase. "What happens to our friend Satan?" he asked, as we paused for a moment at his door. "Do you still turn him out in that hard-hearted way your uncle used to?" "Just the same," I answered. "He has got so accustomed to prowling about at night, I don't suppose he would be happy in the house. Besides," I added, "he's a useful guard against poachers and chicken thieves. " Manning put down his candle on the corner of the chest of drawers. "Yes," he remarked drily, "I shouldn't think that strolling round the island in the dark was a very healthy form of amusement. At least I should be precious sorry to try anything of the sort myself." He held out his hand, which I again accepted with the same inward reluctance. "Good night," I said. "Don't forget to take my prescription. I will give you a look up in the morning and see how it's worked. " I retraced my steps to the hall, where I latched the windows and fastened the front door. I was just taking a final look round when Bascomb came in from the back regions. "What have you done with Satan?" I asked him. "Let 'im out," was the answer, "same as ye told me to. I can fetch 'im in again easy enough if you'd rather 'ave 'im in the 'ouse. " I shook my head. "No," I said, "I think we'll stick to the usual arrangement." Then, pointing to the table, I continued: "You can clear away those drinks and lock up the dining-room. Doctor Manning has gone to bed, and I'm turning in myself too. I will let you know in the morning what time we want breakfast. " With a significant glance in the direction of the staircase he came close up to where I was standing. "I dunno if I ever mentioned it before, guv'nor, but that there bell alongside your bed rings in my room. Mr. Jannaway 'ad it put up special. If you should 'appen to want me any time, all you got to do is just to give it a pull. " "Right you are, Bascomb," I said, and, feeling rather surprised and more than a trifle grateful at his evident concern for my safety, I once more made my way up to my own quarters. Reviewing the events of the evening while I undressed, I could not find much cause for self-congratulation. As far as I could tell I had managed to avoid giving Manning any hint of my true feelings towards him, but with this exception the honours appeared to be all on the other side. He had acted the part of the friendly neighbour in such an easy and natural fashion that it was precious difficult to pick any holes in his performance. His enquiry as to whether I had found out anything more about my uncle, and the two questions he had asked with reference to Bascomb and Satan, were the only incidents I could recall which appeared to be in the least suggestive. Even these were quite in keeping with the character he had assumed, and neither of them threw a very penetrating light on what was really passing at the back of his mind. That he was meditating some mischief, however, seemed to me highly probable. Not that I had much belief in the tragic forebodings of Christine and Bascomb, for I rated our friend's intelligence too highly to imagine him to be capable of any such blunder as that of trying to cut my throat while he was a guest under my roof. I was inclined to think that it was a thirst for information rather than a thirst for blood which had prompted his suggestion of an early retirement. My opinion was chiefly based upon what Bascomb had told me about his two previous attempts to get back into the house after my uncle's death. This persistence could only be explained by the theory that he wanted to make some further investigations, and now that he was actually on the spot he was not likely to neglect such a favourable opportunity. Anyhow, whichever view of the situation was correct, I was faced with the cheerful prospect of spending a sleepless night. It was very annoying, especially as I had to go to town the next day; but my painful experiences at sea have given me a certain amount of philosophy in these matters, and I settled down grimly to make the best of it. Anyone who has enjoyed a similar ordeal knows with what wearisome slowness the hours can occasionally pass. In my case, I had not even the consolation of a book, for I was afraid of treating myself to a candle in case the light should be visible under the door. I just tumbled into bed and lay there in complete darkness, keeping my eyes wide open and listening intently for the slightest noise. Through the open window, at amazingly long intervals, I could hear the church clock at Pen Mill chiming out the quarters. Nothing else broke the silence except an occasional rustle in the shrubbery, which told me that Satan was patrolling the garden with his usual trustworthy thoroughness. Midnight struck, and after a respectable foretaste of eternity between each, one, two, and three eventually followed suit. Very gradually the blackness of night began to slip into the gray twilight of early dawn, and bit by bit the various pieces of furniture in my room emerged into shape out of the surrounding gloom. Outside, a bird started twittering in the creeper, but everything in the house still remained as quiet as the grave. Try as I would, I found it harder and harder to fight off the drowsiness that was constantly stealing over me, and more than once I only just roused myself in time as I was on the very point of falling asleep. Whether I eventually dropped off into a doze I can't say. If I did, some important part of me must have remained awake, for I suddenly found myself sitting up in bed, perfectly cool and collected, but with every nerve in my body strained to the utmost attention. For a moment nothing happened. Then, once again, came the sound that I was waiting for—the faint creak of a board in the passage outside my door. Turning back the clothes, I slipped noiselessly out of bed. A glance at my watch on the table beside me showed me that it was close on half-past four—a time at which no respectable passage board has any right to indulge in such antics. My long vigil had not been useless, and, standing there in bare feet and pyjamas, I felt that pleasant glow of rewarded virtue which comes occasionally to the least deserving of us. I made no attempt to rush things, however. Looking round the room, my eyes fell on the poker, which was leaning up invitingly alongside the fireplace. It struck me as being a nice, companionable sort of object, and, having tiptoed across the room and taken possession of it, I returned in the same stealthy fashion to the door. With my hand on the knob I again paused to listen. My ears are pretty sharp, and, although extreme care was evidently being taken over the performance, I felt absolutely certain that somebody was descending the staircase. Very gently I turned back the handle. It yielded to my pressure without making the slightest noise; and then, opening the door inch by inch until the gap was just wide enough, I stepped out warily into the passage. A quick glance up and down showed me nothing more exciting than Manning's boots. They were standing neatly on the mat outside his room, where he had evidently deposited them before getting into bed. Somehow or other this tidiness of his filled me with an increased respect for him, and, taking a still firmer grip on the poker, I set off noiselessly for the head of the stairs. As I crept along I debated with myself what was the best thing to do.
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"Well, a kid can't aim steady if he smokes: that's one sure thing. " Tom was seized with a strange desire to strengthen his companion's side of the case. The poor boy had few enough arguments, goodness knows, in defense of his own habits, and his information was meagre enough. Yet the one little thing which he seemed to remember about the other side of stone-throwing he now contributed willingly. "It's bad too if you ever land a guy one in the temple. " "Well, I don't know; I don't think there's so much in that, though there may be. I landed a guy one in the temple with a stick last summer—accident, of course, and I thought it would kill him, but it didn't. " Tom was surprised and fascinated by the stranger's frankness. "But a fellow that throws stones is no sport, that's sure, and you can mark that up in your brain if you happen to have a lump of coal handy. " "I chucked that coal—honest. " "Good. " It had been Tom's intention to go down through Chester Street and steal an apple from Schmitt's Grocery, but instead he accompanied his new friend until that mysterious person turned to enter a house. "Guess we didn't swap names, did we?" the stranger said, holding out his hand. It was the first time that Tom Slade had grasped anyone's hand in many a day. "Tom—Tom Slade," he said, hitching up his suspender. "So? Mine's Ellsworth. Come up to the Library building and see us some Friday night—the boys, I mean. " "Oh, are you the boss o' them regiment fellers?" "Not exactly the boss; scouts we call ourselves. " "What's a scout? A soldier, like?" "No, a scout's a fellow that does stunts and things. " "I betcher you kin do a few." "I bet I can!" laughed Mr. Ellsworth; "you said it! I've got some of those boys guessing." Which was the plain truth. "Drop in some Friday night and see us; don't forget now. " Tom watched him as he ascended the steps of a neighboring porch. He had a strange fascination for the boy, and it was not till the door closed behind him that Tom's steady gaze was averted. Then he shuffled off down the street. Tom Slade awoke at about eleven o'clock, swung his legs to the floor, yawned, rubbed his eyes, felt blindly for his tattered shoes and sniffed the air. Something was wrong, that was sure. Tom sniffed again. Something had undoubtedly happened. The old familiar odor which had dwelt in the Slade apartment all winter, the stuffy smell of bed clothes and dirty matting, of kerosene and smoke and fried potatoes and salt-fish and empty beer bottles, had given place to something new. Tom sniffed again. Then, all of a sudden, his waking senses became aware of his father seated in his usual greasy chair, sideways to the window. And the window was open! The stove-lifter which had been used to pry it up lay on the sill, and the spring air, gracious and democratic, was pouring in amid the squalor just as it was pouring in through the wide-swung cathedral windows of John Temple's home up in Grantley Square. "Yer opened the winder, didn' yer?" said Tom. "Never you mind what I done," replied his father. "Ain't it after six?" "Never you mind what 'tis; git yer cap 'n' beat it up to Barney's for a pint. " "Ain't we goin' to have no eats?" "No, we ain't goin' ter have no eats. You tell Barney to give ye a cup o' coffee; tell 'im I said so. " "Awh, he wouldn' give me no pint widout de money. " "He wouldn', wouldn' he? I'll pint you! " "I ain't goin' ter graft on him no more. " "Git me a dime off Tony then and stop in Billy's comin' back 'n' tell him I got the cramps agin and can't work. " "He'll gimme the laugh. " "I'll give ye the other kind of a laugh if ye don't beat it. I left you sleep till eleven o'clock—" "You didn' leave me sleep," said Tom. "Yer only woke up yerself half an hour ago. " "Yer call me a liar, will ye?" roared Bill Slade, rising. Tom took his usual strategic position on the opposite side of the table, and as his father moved ominously around it, kept the full width of it between them. When he reached a point nearest the sink he grabbed a dented pail therefrom and darted out and down the stairs. Up near Grantley Square was a fence which bore the sign, "Post No Bills." How this had managed to escape Tom hitherto was a mystery, but he now altered it, according to the classic hoodlum formula, so that it read, "Post No Bills," and headed up through the square for Barney Galloway's saloon. Bill Slade had been reduced to long-distance intercourse in the matter of saloons for he had exhausted his credit in all the places near Barrel Alley. In the spacious garden of John Temple's home a girl of twelve or thirteen years was bouncing a ball. This was Mary Temple, and what business "old" John Temple had with such a pretty and graceful little daughter, I am not qualified to explain. "Chuck it out here," said Tom, "an' I'll ketch it in the can. " She retreated a few yards into the garden, then turned, and gave Tom a withering stare. "Chuck it out here and I'll chuck it back—honest," called Tom. The girl's dignity began to show signs of collapse. She wanted to have that ball thrown, and to catch it. "Will you promise to toss it back?" she weakened. "Sure." "Word and honor?" "Sure." "Cross your heart? " "Sure." Still she hesitated, arm in air. "Will you promise to throw it back?" "Sure, hope to die. Chuck it. " "Get back a little," said she. The ball went sailing over the paling, Tom caught it, gave a yell of triumph, beat a tattoo upon the can, and ran for all he was worth. Outside the saloon Tom borrowed ten cents from Tony, the bootblack, on his father's behalf, and with this he purchased the beer. Meanwhile, the bad turn which he had done had begun to sprout and by the time he reached home it had grown and spread to such proportions that Jack's beanstalk was a mere shrub compared with it. Nothing was farther from John Temple's thoughts that beautiful Saturday than to pay a visit to Barrel Alley. On the contrary, he was just putting on his new spring hat to go out to the Country Club for a turn at golf, when Mary came in crying that Tom Slade had stolen her ball. Temple cared nothing about the ball, nor a great deal about Mary's tears, but the mention of Tom Slade reminded him that the first of the month was close at hand and that he had intended to "warn" Bill Slade with the usual threat of eviction. Bill had never paid the rent in full after the second month of his residence in Barrel Alley. When he was working and Temple happened to come along at a propitious moment, Bill would give him two dollars or five dollars, as the case might be, but as to how the account actually stood he had not the slightest idea. If Tom had not sent Mary Temple into the house crying her father would never have thought to go through Barrel Alley on his way out to the Country Club, but as it was, when Tom turned into the Alley from Main Street, he saw Mr. Temple's big limousine car standing in front of his own door. If there was one thing in this world more than another dear to the heart of Tom Slade, it was a limousine car. Even an Italian organgrinder did not offer the mischievous possibilities of a limousine. He had a regular formula for the treatment of limousines which was as sure of success as a "cure all. " Placing his pail inside the doorway, he approached the chauffeur with a suspiciously friendly air which boded mischief. After a strategic word or two of cordiality, he grasped the siren horn, tooted it frantically, pulled the timer aroundr opened one of the doors, jumped in and out of the opposite door, leaving both open, and retreated as far as the corner, calling, "Yah-h-h-h-h!" In a few minutes he returned very cautiously, sidled up to the house door, and took his belated way upstairs.
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Adventure stories
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Bridges, Victor
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Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)
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66969
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6655
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Bridges, Victor_[Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex Coast]_1500_39
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Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)_[Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures]_1500_2
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" Miss Bell came down the steps, putting on her gloves: "Oh, darling, the city and the mountains and the sky wish you to lament your departure. They make themselves beautiful to-day in order to make you regret quitting them and desire to see them again. " But Choulette, whom the dryness of the Tuscan climate tired, regretted green Umbria and its humid sky. He recalled Assisi. He said: "There are woods and rocks, a fair sky and white clouds. I have walked there in the footsteps of good Saint Francis, and I transcribed his canticle to the sun in old French rhymes, simple and poor. " Madame Martin said she would like to hear it. Miss Bell was already listening, and her face wore the fervent expression of an angel sculptured by Mino. Choulette told them it was a rustic and artless work. The verses were not trying to be beautiful. They were simple, although uneven, for the sake of lightness. Then, in a slow and monotonous voice, he recited the canticle. "Oh, Monsieur Choulette," said Miss Bell, "this canticle goes up to heaven, like the hermit in the Campo Santo of Pisa, whom some one saw going up the mountain that the goats liked. I will tell you. The old hermit went up, leaning on the staff of faith, and his step was unequal because the crutch, being on one side, gave one of his feet an advantage over the other. That is the reason why your verses are unequal. I have understood it. " The poet accepted this praise, persuaded that he had unwittingly deserved it. "You have faith, Monsieur Choulette," said Therese. "Of what use is it to you if not to write beautiful verses?" "Faith serves me to commit sin, Madame. " "Oh, we commit sins without that. " Madame Marmet appeared, equipped for the journey, in the tranquil joy of returning to her pretty apartment, her little dog Toby, her old friend Lagrange, and to see again, after the Etruscans of Fiesole, the skeleton warrior who, among the bonbon boxes, looked out of the window. Miss Bell escorted her friends to the station in her carriage. "WE ARE ROBBING LIFE" Dechartre came to the carriage to salute the two travellers. Separated from him, Therese felt what he was to her: he had given to her a new taste of life, delicious and so vivid, so real, that she felt it on her lips. She lived under a charm in the dream of seeing him again, and was surprised when Madame Marmet, along the journey, said: "I think we are passing the frontier," or "Rose-bushes are in bloom by the seaside. " She was joyful when, after a night at the hotel in Marseilles, she saw the gray olive-trees in the stony fields, then the mulberry-trees and the distant profile of Mount Pilate, and the Rhone, and Lyons, and then the familiar landscapes, the trees raising their summits into bouquets clothed in tender green, and the lines of poplars beside the rivers. She enjoyed the plenitude of the hours she lived and the astonishment of profound joys. And it was with the smile of a sleeper suddenly awakened that, at the station in Paris, in the light of the station, she greeted her husband, who was glad to see her. When she kissed Madame Marmet, she told her that she thanked her with all her heart. And truly she was grateful to all things, like M. Choulette's St. Francis. In the coupe, which followed the quays in the luminous dust of the setting sun, she listened without impatience to her husband confiding to her his successes as an orator, the intentions of his parliamentary groups, his projects, his hopes, and the necessity to give two or three political dinners. She closed her eyes in order to think better. She said to herself: "I shall have a letter to-morrow, and shall see him again within eight days." When the coupe passed on the bridge, she looked at the water, which seemed to roll flames; at the smoky arches; at the rows of trees; at the heads of the chestnut-trees in bloom on the Cours-la-Reine; all these familiar aspects seemed to be clothed for her in novel magnificence. It seemed to her that her love had given a new color to the universe. And she asked herself whether the trees and the stones recognized her. She was thinking; "How is it that my silence, my eyes, and heaven and earth do not tell my dear secret?" M. Martin-Belleme, thinking she was a little tired, advised her to rest. And at night, closeted in her room, in the silence wherein she heard the palpitations of her heart, she wrote to the absent one a letter full of these words, which are similar to flowers in their perpetual novelty: "I love you. I am waiting for you. I am happy. I feel you are near me. There is nobody except you and me in the world. I see from my window a blue star which trembles, and I look at it, thinking that you see it in Florence. I have put on my table the little red lily spoon. Come! Come!" And she found thus, fresh in her mind, the eternal sensations and images. For a week she lived an inward life, feeling within her the soft warmth which remained of the days passed in the Via Alfieri, breathing the kisses which she had received, and loving herself for being loved. She took delicate care and displayed attentive taste in new gowns. It was to herself, too, that she was pleasing. Madly anxious when there was nothing for her at the postoffice, trembling and joyful when she received through the small window a letter wherein she recognized the large handwriting of her beloved, she devoured her reminiscences, her desires, and her hopes. Thus the hours passed quickly. The morning of the day when he was to arrive seemed to her to be odiously long. She was at the station before the train arrived. A delay had been signalled. It weighed heavily upon her. Optimist in her projects, and placing by force, like her father, faith on the side of her will, that delay which she had not foreseen seemed to her to be treason. The gray light, which the three-quarters of an hour filtered through the window- panes of the station, fell on her like the rays of an immense hour-glass which measured for her the minutes of happiness lost. She was lamenting her fate, when, in the red light of the sun, she saw the locomotive of the express stop, monstrous and docile, on the quay, and, in the crowd of travellers coming out of the carriages, Jacques approached her. He was looking at her with that sort of sombre and violent joy which she had often observed in him. He said: "At last, here you are. I feared to die before seeing you again. You do not know, I did not know myself, what torture it is to live a week away from you. I have returned to the little pavilion of the Via Alfieri. In the room you know, in front of the old pastel, I have wept for love and rage. " She looked at him tenderly. "And I, do you not think that I called you, that I wanted you, that when alone I extended my arms toward you? I had hidden your letters in the chiffonier where my jewels are. I read them at night: it was delicious, but it was imprudent. Your letters were yourself—too much and not enough. " They traversed the court where fiacres rolled away loaded with boxes. She asked whether they were to take a carriage. He made no answer. He seemed not to hear. She said: "I went to see your house; I did not dare go in. I looked through the grille and saw windows hidden in rose-bushes in the rear of a yard, behind a tree, and I said: 'It is there !' I never have been so moved. " He was not listening to her nor looking at her. He walked quickly with her along the paved street, and through a narrow stairway reached a deserted street near the station. There, between wood and coal yards, was a hotel with a restaurant on the first floor and tables on the sidewalk. Under the painted sign were white curtains at the windows. Dechartre stopped before the small door and pushed Therese into the obscure alley. She asked: "Where are you leading me? What is the time? I must be home at half- past seven. We are mad. " When they left the house, she said: "Jacques, my darling, we are too happy; we are robbing life.
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"I tell you," said one (who spoke warmly), "that if you have a particle of common-sense left in you, you will accompany me to England. This Mejnour is an impostor more dangerous—because more in earnest—than Zicci. After all, what do his promises amount to? You allow that nothing can be more equivocal. You say that he has left Naples, that he has selected a retreat more genial than the crowded thoroughfares of men to the studies in which he is to initiate you; and this retreat is among the haunts of the fiercest bandits of Italy,—haunts which Justice itself dare not penetrate; fitting hermitage for a sage! I tremble for you. What if this stranger, of whom nothing is known, be leagued with the robbers; and these lures for your credulity bait but the traps for your property,—perhaps your life? You might come off cheaply by a ransom of half your fortune; you smile indignantly well! put common- sense out of the question; take your own view of the matter. You are to undergo an ordeal which Mejnour himself does not profess to describe as a very tempting one. It may, or it may not, succeed; if it does not, you are menaced with the darkest evils; and if it does, you cannot be better off than the dull and joyless mystic whom you have taken for a master. Away with this folly! Enjoy youth while it is left to you. Return with me to England; forget these dreams. Enter your proper career; form affections more respectable than those which lured you a while to an Italian adventuress, and become a happy and distinguished man. This is the advice of sober friendship; yet the promises I hold out to you are fairer than those of Mejnour. " "Merton," said Glyndon, doggedly, "I cannot, if I would, yield to your wishes. A power that is above me urges me on; I cannot resist its fascination. I will proceed to the last in the strange career I have commenced. Think of me no more. Follow yourself the advice you give to me, and be happy. " "This is madness," said Merton, passionately, but with a tear in his eye; "your health is already failing; you are so changed I should scarcely know you: come, I have already had your name entered in my passport; in another hour I shall be gone, and you, boy that you are, will be left without a friend to the deceits of your own fancy and the machinations of this relentless mountebank. " "Enough," said Glyndon, coldly; "you cease to be an effective counsellor when you suffer your prejudices to be thus evident. I have already had ample proof," added the Englishman, and his pale cheek grew more pale, "of the power of this man,—if man he be, which I sometimes doubt; and, come life, come death, I will not shrink from the paths that allure me. Farewell, Merton: if we never meet again; if you hear amidst our old and cheerful haunts that Clarence Glyndon sleeps the last sleep by the shores of Naples, or amidst the Calabrian hills,—say to the friends of our youth, 'He died worthily, as thousands of martyr-students have died before him, in the pursuit of knowledge.' " He wrung Merton's hand as he spoke, darted from his side, and disappeared amidst the crowd. That day Merton left Naples; the next morning Glyndon also quitted the City of Delight, alone and on horseback. He bent his way into those picturesque but dangerous parts of the country which at that time were infested by banditti, and which few travellers dared to pass, even in broad daylight, without a strong escort. A road more lonely cannot well be conceived than that on which the hoofs of his steed, striking upon the fragments of rock that encumbered the neglected way, woke a dull and melancholy echo. Large tracts of waste land, varied by the rank and profuse foliage of the South, lay before him; occasionally a wild goat peeped down from some rocky crag, or the discordant cry of a bird of prey, startled in its sombre haunt, was heard above the hills. These were the only signs of life; not a human being was met, not a hut was visible. Wrapped in his own ardent and solemn thoughts, the young man continued his way, till the sun had spent its noonday heat, and a breeze that announced the approach of eve sprung up from the unseen ocean that lay far distant to his sight. It was then that a turn in the road brought before him one of those long, desolate, gloomy villages which are found in the interior of the Neapolitan dominions; and now he came upon a small chapel on one side of the road, with a gaudily painted image of the Virgin in the open shrine. Around this spot, which in the heart of a Christian land retained the vestige of the old idolatry (for just such were the chapels that in the Pagan age were dedicated to the demon-saints of mythology), gathered six or seven miserable and squalid wretches, whom the Curse of the Leper had cut off from mankind. They set up a shrill cry as they turned their ghastly visages towards the horseman; and, without stirring from the spot, stretched out their gaunt arms, and implored charity in the name of the Merciful Mother. Glyndon hastily threw them some small coins, and, turning away his face, clapped spurs to his horse, and relaxed not his speed till he entered the village. On either side the narrow and miry street, fierce and haggard forms—some leaning against the ruined walls of blackened huts, some seated at the threshold, some lying at full length in the mud—presented groups that at once invoked pity and aroused alarm; pity for their squalor,—alarm for the ferocity imprinted on their savage aspects. They gazed at him, grim and sullen, as he rode slowly up the rugged street; sometimes whispering significantly to each other, but without attempting to stop his way. Even the children hushed their babble, and ragged urchins, devouring him with sparkling eyes, muttered to their mothers, "We shall feast well to-morrow!" It was, indeed, one of those hamlets in which Law sets not its sober step, in which Violence and Murder house secure,—hamlets common then in the wilder parts of Italy, in which the peasant was but the gentler name for the robber. Glyndon's heart somewhat failed him as he looked around, and the question he desired to ask died upon his lips. At length, from one of the dismal cabins emerged a form superior to the rest. Instead of the patched and ragged overall which made the only garment of the men he had hitherto seen, the dress of this person was characterized by all the trappings of Calabrian bravery. Upon his raven hair, the glossy curls of which made a notable contrast to the matted and elfin locks of the savages around, was placed a cloth cap with a gold tassel that hung down to his shoulder; his mustaches were trimmed with care, and a silk kerchief of gay lines was twisted round a well-shaped but sinewy throat; a short jacket of rough cloth was decorated with several rows of gilt filagree buttons; his nether garments fitted tight to his limbs, and were curiously braided; while in a broad, party-colored sash were placed four silver-hilted pistols; and the sheathed knife, usually worn by Italians of the lower order, was mounted in ivory elaborately carved. A small carbine of handsome workmanship was slung across his shoulder, and completed his costume. The man himself was of middle size, athletic, yet slender; with straight and regular features,—sunburnt, but not swarthy; and an expression of countenance which, though reckless and bold, had in it frankness rather than ferocity, and, if defying, was not altogether unprepossessing. Glyndon, after eyeing this figure for some moments with great attention, checked his rein, and asked in the provincial patois, with which he was tolerably familiar, the way to the "Castle of the Mountain. " The man lifted his cap as he heard the question, and, approaching Glyndon, laid his hand upon the neck of the horse, and said in a low voice, "Then you are the cavalier whom our patron the signor expected. He bade me wait for you here, and lead you to the castle. And indeed, signor, it might have been unfortunate if I had neglected to obey the command." The man then, drawing a little aside, called out to the bystanders in a loud voice, "Ho, ho, my friends, pay henceforth and forever all respect to this worshipful cavalier. He is the accepted guest of our blessed patron of the Castle of the Mountain. Long life to him!
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Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
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France, Anatole
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Bulwer, Edward Lytton
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3921
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7607
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France, Anatole_[The Red Lily — Volume 03]_1500_3
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Bulwer, Edward Lytton_[Zicci: A Tale — Volume 02]_1500_10
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They jerked away from Faith, returned to her, jerked away again.... All without any movement of Noll's head. And as the man's eyes wavered and wrenched back to her thus, the pupils contracted and narrowed in an effort to focus upon her. For the rest, he was flushed, brick red.... His whole face seemed to swell. He was inhuman, a beast of ape‑like fury as he stared at his wife; abruptly he raised his hands, pressed them to his face, and turned away, as if the very pressure was pushing him back. He turned his back on her, and went to his desk, and unlocked a drawer. Faith knew the drawer; she was not surprised when he drew out of it a revolver. Bending over the desk, with this weapon in his hand, Noll Wing made sure every chamber was loaded.... He paid her no attention. Faith watched him momentarily, then turned toward the bench that crossed the stern and lifted a scrap of embroidered fabric from it. One foot rested on the floor; the other swayed back and forth, as though beating time, a few inches above the floor. It is impossible for the average man to cross his knees in this fashion, just as it is impossible for a woman to throw a ball. Sitting thus, Faith began to sew. She was outlining the petal of an embroidered flower; and she gave this work her whole attention. She did not look up at Noll. The man finished his examination of the weapon; he turned it in his hand; he lifted it and leveled it at Faith. Still Faith did not look up; she seemed completely unconcerned. Noll said harshly: "Faith!" She looked up then, met his eyes fairly, smiled a little. " What is it, Noll?" " I'm going to kill you," he said, with stiff lips. " All right," she said, and bent her head above her sewing once more, disregarding him. Noll was stupefied.... This was not surprise; it was the helplessness which courage inspires in a coward. For Noll was a coward in those last days.... His face twisted; his hand was shaking.... He stared over the revolver barrel at Faith's brown head. Her hair was parted in the middle, drawn back about her face. The white line of skin where the hair was parted fascinated him; he could not take his eyes from it. The revolver’s muzzle lowered without his awareness, its barrel resting in his hand as he fixed his gaze on Faith’s head—especially the portion of her hair where an old tortoise‑shell comb jutted upright from the back. The silver mounting of the comb caught the light, sending a glimmer that held Noll’s eye, while Faith continued her quiet sewing. And Noll's tense muscles, little by little, relaxed.... His fingers loosed their grip on the revolver butt; it dropped to the floor with a clatter. The sound seemed to rouse Noll; he strode toward Faith. " By God," he cried. " You'll...." He swung down a hand and gathered the fabric of her work between harsh fingers. Her needle was in the midst of a stitch; it pricked him.... He did not feel the tiny wound. He was ready to yank the embroidery from her hand, feeling as if he were defending her, but when his grip caught the piece, Faith looked up again, and their eyes met. That stopped him; he stood motionless for a brief instant, bent over her so that their faces were only six inches apart, then jerked his hand away, released the bit of fancy work, and, with the needle deep in his finger, pulled it out of the cloth. The thread followed it; when his quick movement drew the thread to full length, the fabric was jerked out of Faith's unresisting hands. It dangled by the thread from the needle that stuck in Noll's finger; and he saw it, and jerked the needle out with a quick, spasmodic gesture, and flung it to one side. He did not look at it; he was looking, still, at Faith. " Put that away," he said hoarsely. Faith smiled, glanced toward the bit of white upon the floor. " I'm afraid there's blood on it," she said. " Blood ..." he repeated, under his breath. " Blood...." She folded her hands quietly upon her knee, waiting. " I want to talk to you," he said. She nodded. " All right. Do. " His wrath boiled through his lips chokingly. " You ..." he stammered. " You and Brander...." Her eyes, upon his, hardened. She said nothing; but this hardening of her eyes was like a defiance. He flung his hands above his head. " By God, you're shameless," he choked. " You're shameless.... A shameless woman.... And him.... I took him out of a hell hole.... And he takes you.... I'll break him in two with my hands. " She said nothing; he flung into an insanity of words. He cursed her unspeakably, with every evil phrase he had learned in close to thirty years of the sea. He accused her of unnamable things.... His face swelled with his fury, the veins bulged upon his forehead, his eyes were covered with a dry film. His mouth filled with saliva, that splattered with the venom of his words.... It ran down his chin, so that he brushed it away with the back of his hand.... He was uncontrolled, save in one thing. He was compelled to hush his voice, whispering harshly and chokingly. This was no man, but a beast.... There could be nothing between them. She had married Noll Wing; not the body of him, nor the face of him, but the soul within the man. And this was not Noll Wing's soul she saw.... That was dead; this horrible thing had bred festeringly in the carrion.... Humanity has an immense capacity for rising to an emergency. The human heart sustains a grief that should kill; it throws this grief aside and is—save for a hidden scar—as gay as it was in the beginning. Man meets peril or death, meets them unafraid.... If he had considered these emergencies in the calm and security of his home, his hair would have crawled with terror at the thought of them. The imagination can conjure dreadful things; the heart and soul and body of man can endure catastrophes beyond imagining. There is no load too heavy for this immortally designed fabric of flesh and blood and bone to bear. There is a psychological phenomenon that might be called the duplication of personality. A soldier in battle becomes two men. One of these men is convulsed with lust for blood; he screams, he shoots, he stabs, he kills. In contrast, the other half of him was calm and serene, watching the wild actions of its counterpart with a tranquil mind, swiftly calculating danger‑laden plans in a heartbeat—an inner general issuing orders and a loyal army executing them—exactly as Faith herself reflected. She shrank in spirit and heart before Noll's horrible outpouring; yet was she at the same time steady and undisturbed. There was a numbness upon her; it silenced her suffering while simultaneously sparking her thoughts. He flung out his hands. " Come!" he commanded.
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Then he recommenced his pacing, but slower, and continued, 'Wherever those two are that God made with His two hands, they must come together. It doesn't matter where they are: one might be in Mersea while the other is in Asia, Africa, China, America, or London. Whether soon or late, they must eventually meet, and when they do, they are in heaven. If a man takes another woman fashioned by the left hand, it makes no difference; he cannot go against his destiny. He has taken the wrong woman, and he is not happy. He has always known this, yet his spirit trembles with restlessness and longing; if he cannot find his proper one before this world ends, he will wander in search until that person dies, after which he will pursue her right‑hand companion. That is what makes ghosts to ramble. Ghosts are those that have married the wrong ones, wandering and waiting, and seeking for their right mates. Do you hear the piping and the crying at the windows of a winter night? Those are the ghosts, staring inward and sobbing because they shiver in the cold until they finally meet their mates. But when they meet, then that is heaven. Everyone has a heaven, but it is attained only when the two perfect counterparts meet; if that does not happen in this life, it will come in the next. There is also hell, but it is not for everyone and it does not last forever; it erupts only when a person marries the wrong mate and then recognizes the error. He stopped. He had become very earnest and excited by what he had said. He came again over against Mehalah. ' Glory!' he continued, 'don't you see how the moon goes after the sun and cannot come to him? She is his proper mate and counterpart, yet the sun neither knows nor takes her; consequently day and night, winter and summer, waxing and waning continue in endless cycle. But that won't go on for ever. When the sun grows sorrowful at the moon’s absence and begins to wane, a great flare, blaze, and glory will erupt, carrying them into heaven. With the two poles of the earth still apart, the world rolls on in misery and pain, the very separation that gives rise to earthquakes, volcanoes, and great plagues—though the poles ought to be together. But they are drawing gradually nearer each other. The seasons now are not what they used to be, and that is it. The poles are not where they were, they are straining to meet. And some day they will run into one, and that will be the end. I've heard say that in the Bible it is spoken that there'll be an end of this world. I could have known that without the Bible. The poles must come together some day, and be one. Glory!' He went on, saying, “You and I are each other’s doubles—you were made with God’s left hand and I with His right at the same moment, and He cast you into the Ray and me into Red Hall.” Only a narrow band of water, ooze, and marsh separated us, and for ages we had been drawn ever closer together; now you stand beneath my roof. You can't help it. You cannot fight agin it. You were made for me, and I for you, and you’ll have a life of hell unless you take me now. I must be yours. You thought you'd resist and take George De Witt. It might have been. Suppose you had, and I had died years before you. You would have heard me weeping at your window and pounding on your door, and felt my relentless pursuit of you—whether you consented or not—stealing your heart from George and surrendering it to me. At last you would have died; then you would have become mine, and after thirty, forty, or fifty years of hell you would have found our heaven. The terrible earnestness of the man imposed on Mehalah. He spoke what he believed. He gave utterance, in his rude fierce way, to what he felt. She, uneducated, was filled with vague attempts to reach for something greater and wider than the flat, narrow life she led, and she was startled. Heaven with you!' she cried, drawing back; 'never! never!' ' Heaven with me, and with none but me. You can't get another heaven but in my arms, for you was made for me by God. I told you so, but you would not believe it. Try, if you like, to find it elsewhere. God didn't make you and George De Witt out of one lump. He couldn't have done it—You, Glory! He was strong, great, and noble, possessing a will of iron, while the other—weak, helpless, and vulgar—was bound to his mother’s apron. He couldn't have done it. He fashioned Phoebe Musset and George De Witt from a single piece, but you and I were forged together at the same time, from the same clay, sharing the same breath in our hearts and the same blood in our veins. You can't help it, it is so. You can not, you shall not, escape me. Soon or late you will find your true mate, seek your double, and ultimately discover your heaven. He came now quietly and seated himself in his chair opposite Mehalah. ' What did you fare to say, Glory?' he asked. ' I interrupted you. ' ' I must thank you first for what you have done for my mother.' ' I have done nothing for her,' said Elijah sharply. ' You drew her out of the burning house. You saved her goods from the flames. You have sheltered her here. ' ' I have done nothing for her,' said Elijah again. ' Whatever I have done, I did for you. Without you, she might have burned, and I would not have offered a single finger to help her. What care I for her? She is naught to me. She wasn't destined for me; that was you. I saved her because she was your mother. I collected your things from the blazing house. I have taken you in. I take her in only as I might take in your shoe, or your cow, because it is yours. She is naught to me. I don't care if I never saw or heard her again.' He rose and went to the window, seized a flask, then fetched his gun from a corner, applied some of the bottle’s vitriol to the brass, and began polishing the fittings with a rag. Look at this,' he said, dropping some of the acid on the tarnished brass. ' Watch it fizzle and bubble until the filth scums away, leaving the brass shining as bright as gold. That's like me. I'm fretted and fume with your opposition, and I dare say it is as well I get a little. But after a bit it will bring out the shining metal. You will see what I am. You don't like me now, because I'm not shapely and handsome as your George De Witt. But there is the gold metal underneath; he was but gilt pinchbeck—George De Witt!' he repeated. ' That was a fancy of yours, that he was your mate! You could not have loved him a week after you'd known what he was. Marriage would have rubbed the plating off, and you would have scorned and cast him aside.' ' Elijah!' said Mehalah, 'I cannot bear this. I loved once and I will love forever— not you— you—never; George, only George, none but George. More fool you,' said Rebow sulkily. Only I don't believe it. You say so to aggravate me, but you don't think it.' She did not care to pursue the subject. She had spoken out her heart, and was satisfied. ' Well, what else had you to say? I didn't think you was one of the bread and butter curtsey-my-dears and thanky, sirs! That is a new feature in you, Glory! It is the first time I've had the taste of thanks from you on my tongue.' ' You never gave me occasion before.' ' No more I did,' he answered. ' You are right there.
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Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
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Williams, Ben Ames
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Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
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36881
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54404
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Williams, Ben Ames_[Πλουτάρχου Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Τόμος 1 Θησεύς - Ρωμύλος - Λυκούργος - Νουμάς]_1500_42_0.1
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Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)_[Mehalah: A Story of the Salt Marshes]_1500_45_0.2
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She got up just as we did and seemed to look around and wonder what was happening, and she lifted clear of whatever it was and seemed to jump out of it, but perhaps it was only the broken water that gave me the idea that she did, for then she ran fairly on to it with a crash which tore the boat's skids clean off and pitched her fore and main top-gallant masts right out of her like bitten-off carrots. " "Were the men aloft killed," Sard asked. "No, sir, they were warned by her hitting the first time. After that second crash she didn't strike again, she only worked down into where there were great breakers all round us. Then the fog went as though by magic and it was daylight. We could see everything when it was too late, Cape Caliente, Port Matoche, and all the coast as far as the Cow and Calves. We were on the Snappers, seven miles west of Caliente. Mr. Dorney had been thinking that we were among the Chamuceras, thirteen miles east of her. "Well, sir, we could take stock of how we were. She was lying over on her starboard side a little and about a foot or two by the stern. We judged that she was ripped pretty well open, for the water was over her 'tween decks. And now that it was too late the wind began to freshen and she began to grind where she lay. Mr. Dorney furled the sails to ease her and got the boats ready for hoisting out, and by the time the boats were ready she was grinding down at each swell with a noise like ice cracking on a lake, and the sea all round her began to come up in a kind of syrup from our sugar. "By eight o'clock it was no joke to be on deck. She was pounding and breaking the sea. Mr. Dorney decided to abandon ship. He hoisted all her colours first, house flag, ensign and number, and then he got off three of the boats. I went in the bo'sun's boat. Just before Mr. Dorney's boat was put over the side, while we were lying off watching, there came a great big swell, which passed underneath us, of course, but it caught the old Pathfinder fair and gave her a great yank over and everything in her seemed to fetch away over to starboard with a bang, and the next swell went right over her all along. It was just all they could do to get that last boat over. "Well, that was the end of it, sir, we'd a bit of a job to make Port Matoche, for the wind freshened into one of those local northerly gales which they call Arnottos. But we landed everybody and we took the sick up to the hospital. Mr. Hopkins and the A.B. were both much better when we left Port Matoche. The padre, Father Garsinton, was quite recovered. He came on here in a coaster so as to save a day while we were waiting for the mail. The doctor said that we had got some tropical infection on board, he didn't know quite what; he said it was like medellin throat, but he had never known cases fatal before. We were all fumigated and had our clothes baked, which spoiled all our boots. " "Did the Pathfinder break up?" Sard asked. "Yes, sir," the boy said. "Mr. Dorney, Wolfram, the Bos'un, and Sails went out in a shore boat after the Arnotto died down, to see if they could salve anything from her, but they found only her fo'c'sle and forepeak wedged on the rocks and the fore-mast still hanging by its gear. She had broken short off, they said, just abaft her fore-hatch and the rest of her was gone down into over 100 fathoms. They said that the worst of it was that she was within a ship's length of clearing the Snappers altogether. Another hundred yards would have fetched her clear. " "You aren't allowed a hundred yards, nor a hundred inches, in our profession," Sard said. "A ship is either afloat or ashore, and that's all there is to it. " By this time they had reached the door of the Sailors' Home. "Here you are at your inn," Sard said. "Now go up to your berth and turn in, and don't run the town with flash reefers again. You can't do them any good, and they may do you great harm. Cut away to bed, and tell Mr. Dorney at breakfast that I hope to see him at nine in the morning at the agent's office. " After he had dismissed the boy, Sard walked back to the Plaza, to think. He sat again at his table, sipping coffee, while the waiters about him prepared for closing time. "Medellin throat," he kept thinking, "dead of medellin throat; Captain Cary dead and the ship thrown away on the Snappers. " There came the tramp of feet upon the stairway: men were marching to the Plaza crying strange cries like cheers. The waiter at his elbow touched him and muttered under his breath "Cuidado. " Sard looked up suddenly. Men in the green and silver uniforms of the Guards came up the staircase into the Plaza: they drew up in three little squads of four men each. They carried rifles with which they stood on the alert. After them marched two officers, who came to Sard, jingled the spurs on their heels, clicked and saluted. Sard rose, returned the salute and waited. "Captain Chisholm Harker?" one of the men said. "I am Harker, not Captain," Sard answered. "His Excellency, Don Manuel, the Dictator, desires to speak with you. " They jingled, clicked, saluted and went. A great man stepped from the stairs into the Plaza. Sard knew him at once; indeed no one could fail to know him; there being only one such man alive. He was a grand man, with beauty and power in every line and gesture. He was dressed in spotless white and girt with a green sash. He wore the great white Santa Barbara hat of white macilento straw. He stood still, surveying Sard, for half a minute; Sard stood bareheaded surveying him. Very slowly and reverently the Dictator removed his hat, bowed to Sard and stood bareheaded before him. He said no word, but stood there bowed. Sard wished that it might end. The Dictator advanced suddenly and spoke in English with fierce interjections of Spanish. "Por Dios, Captain Harker," he said, "I have waited all these years, knowing that you would come. When I heard that you were ashore and at the Plaza I could hardly endure to wait. So, give me your hands: no: both hands: so: how are you?" Sard mumbled that he was well and glad to see the Dictator well. "Yes," the Dictator said, "I am better than when last we met. You remember the time we met, on board the Venturer?" "Yes, Your Excellency. " "I, too, I do not forget. Listen, all of you; this man is one of those who saved me in the _Noche Triste_. I was ruined: I was a beggar, what? Love killed, ay de mi; friends killed, hope killed. Myself wounded, exhausted. Those swinery had a price upon my head: two thousand English pounds. These men in the Venturer they took me in; they defended me. Those swinery were rowing harbour-guard for me. These men in the Venturer drew me half drowned from the sea and stood between me and death. " He paused for a moment muttering words which were customary with him when moved: some were prayers for Carlotta, the rest curses on her killers. "Yes," he muttered, "the swinery; but they paid with their life's blood, all but that dog, Don José, and that dog, Rafael. They wetted those stones of horror with their tears, those swinery. " "There was a boy in the Venturer," he continued, "what you call reefer, in what you call the half deck. He brought me in the dusk a suit of serges and a shirt and said, 'Better luck next time, Señor.' What was that reefer's name? Hey?" Sard growled that reefers generally answer to the name of Smith. "Not this one," Don Manuel said. "Por Dios, Captain Harker, it was you did that charity, you, then a boy. In the dusk, you remember, by the deckhouse, under the chocks of the boats, I know not the right name of it: you remember? Por Dios, I remember. "Yes, yes, yes, por Dios; never will I forget.
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I guess I'd get about six minus for it in school—I should worry. Anyway Beaver Chasm is a deep place that the brook flows through. That brook starts away off some place or other and goes west through the chasm, then south into Black Lake. It takes a west southerly course—gee, I remind myself of a geography lesson—that's one study I have no use for. Anyway you needn't bother about the brook now so you can let it flow merrily, merrily, what care we—that's in my school reader. Do you see where the arrows are pointing? Where it says _Roy's route_ and _Through the woods Well that's the way the four of us went and you can see where we got becalmed near the Bagley's Green railroad station, only the map doesn't show where the wind went and anyway I don't know how to make a picture of the wind. After we started off with Mr. Bagley we went north up through the woods toward the chasm. I never went to it that way before. All the times I had gone to it I had gone in at the end of it like the brook does, I hope I make myself plain, that's dandy language like a real author. You see where Bagley Center is? It's about two miles north of the chasm. There are a lot of stores there and everything. It's a flourishing met—something or other, only I don't know how to spell it. I don't like maps any better than you do and there are only two more things about this one. Do you see how there's a road going from Bagley Center to Catskill? You can't see Catskill but anyway it's off in that direction and you can get dandy big ice cream cones there in Schnizel's Confectionery. But if you're hiking from Catskill to Bagley Center there's a short cut through the woods and for quite a ways you don't have to bother with the road. I made a dotted line for that trail and it goes across Beaver Chasm on three or four logs side by side—_some bridge_! So now you know all about the country where we were going to have some adventures. So now you have to answer questions. 1. Which way did Roy Blakeley and his four companions approach Beaver Chasm? Correct, be seated. 2. Which way can you take a short cut through the woods from Catskill to Bagley Center? Point out where the log bridge is? Then you can go home if you want to, I don't care. When we got to the chasm we were on the south side of it, and I can tell you one thing, that chasm is good and deep. The sides are pretty steep too—all rocks. When I looked down into it I saw that there wasn't any brook at all, it was dried up Then I remembered how every one at camp was saying that the lake was very low that season. Uncle Jeb (he's manager) said it was lower than he had ever seen it before. That was the first thing Pee-wee said to me; he said, "Oh, look how the brook isn't there! " I said, "Yes, I can see the brook, it isn't there. No, we have plenty of bananas. " We were standing right on the edge near the logs that go across. Dub and Sandy were seeing the chasm for the first time. They both said they never thought it was anything like that—so deep. I guess they were surprised. Dub said, "_Jumping jiminies_, why didn't you ever tell us about this place?" That's the way it is with new fellows at Temple Camp. But anyway the place even seemed different to me now on account of what I heard about it. Oh boy, did we listen! Mr. Bagley said that when they found his father in the chasm one of the logs was lying in the bottom of the chasm too; it was broken in halves. The old man must have been on his way back from Catskill and he was taking the short cut through the woods. While he was crossing on the logs one of them broke and he fell and was killed. Mr. Bagley pointed down to the very spot where they found his father. Then he pointed down to a lot of bushes and he said that was where they found his father's coat. For a couple of minutes we all stood there just staring down into the chasm. Even Pee-wee didn't say anything. When you know something happened in a place—like getting killed—that place seems kind of scary. And besides I had never looked down into it like that before. When you go in where the brook is, it doesn't seem so deep and dark. One of us asked Mr. Bagley if he had any idea how his father's coat happened to be away from his body, because that seemed funny. He said, "I have no more idea than the man in the moon. All I know is that when we lifted his coat off that clump of brush the oilskin container _was not in any of the pockets_. We know that he went to Catskill. We know that he signed his will and had it witnessed. We know that he started back. We found him the next day lying against that big rock down there. On the night that he met his death his two cousins, Caleb and Bertha Clemm, were in their home. I live with them there now. He is an old bachelor and she is an old maid. But I don't hold that against them—I'm an old bachelor too. But I've had a roving career. Now you boys who are so clever, what do you make out of that mystery?" "Jiminies," I just gasped. Sandy and Dub just shook their heads. Pee-wee said, "Do you know what I bet? I bet that oilskin thing is down there, somewhere; I bet it's there yet. And I bet we can find it. " Mr. Bagley said, "My young friend, that is what I have thought for several years. I have searched this chasm many times. But I want you to notice one thing—_the brook is dry_. There are a hundred new places to search—dried up pools, crevices under rocks, places where I could only feel before, but which may now be seen. Well, I've brought you here and you are Boy Scouts. Here is an adventure for you. " Pee-wee could hardly speak, he was so excited. He said, "And if we find it and you get all the property like that will says, do you cross your heart you'll sell that woods over near the lake to Temple Camp? That's only fair, so do you promise?" Mr. Bagley just looked straight at him, then he shot out his hand and gave Pee-wee's hand a good long shake. I had to laugh to look at Pee-wee standing there looking very important with his hand being shaken up and down. Then Mr. Bagley said, "A promise is a promise. And I think—you—boys—are—going—to—do—something—BIG. " All of a sudden he dropped Pee-wee's hand and started off through the woods. It was hot and he had his hat off and he was wiping his bald head with his handkerchief. I had to laugh, he looked so funny starting off that way. There was about as much hair on his head as there is on an egg. "That's right, laugh!" Pee-wee shouted good and mad. "That's all the sense you've got—to laugh at somebody when they're feeling bad! I suppose you'd stand here laughing if your father fell down and got killed in this chasm—you've always got a smirk on your face no matter what! " I was just going to start kidding him along when Sandy said, "I think the man was starting to cry; gee, I feel sorry for him. I think he didn't want us to see him and that's why he started away so suddenly. " We all stood there just looking down into the chasm and not saying anything. It looked pretty spooky. I'll say that. "Do you know what I think?" Dub said. "I think that's one fine idea—about now being a good time to hunt on account of the brook being dry. Gee williger, we fellows have got the chance of our lives. Something big! Well, _I'll say so_. " "Jiminies," I said, "I'm just beginning to see it.
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Adventure stories
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Masefield, John
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Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)
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69340
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75164
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Masefield, John_[Sard Harker: A novel]_1500_63
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Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)_[Roy Blakeley's roundabout hike]_1500_7
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" Cecilia, extremely struck by this extraordinary address, stopt short and looked much disturbed: which, when he perceived, he added, "Let the danger, not the warning affect you! discard the sycophants that surround you, seek the virtuous, relieve the poor, and save yourself from the impending destruction of unfeeling prosperity! " Having uttered these words with vehemence and authority, he sternly passed them, and disappeared. Cecilia, too much astonished for speech, stood for some time immoveable, revolving in her mind various conjectures upon the meaning of an exhortation so strange and so urgent. Nor was the rest of the company much less discomposed: Sir Robert, Mr Monckton, and Mr Arnott, each conscious of their own particular plans, were each apprehensive that the warning pointed at himself: Mr Gosport was offended at being included in the general appellation of sycophants; Mrs Harrel was provoked at being interrupted in her ramble; and Captain Aresby, sickening at the very sight of him, retreated the moment he came forth. "For heaven's sake," cried Cecilia, when somewhat recovered from her consternation, "who can this be, and what can he mean? You, Mr Monckton, must surely know something of him; it was at your house I first saw him. " "Indeed," answered Mr Monckton, "I knew almost nothing of him then, and I am but little better informed now. Belfield picked him up somewhere, and desired to bring him to my house: he called him by the name of Albany: I found him a most extraordinary character, and Belfield, who is a worshipper of originality, was very fond of him. " "He's a devilish crabbed old fellow," cried Sir Robert, "and if he goes on much longer at this confounded rate, he stands a very fair chance of getting his ears cropped. " "He is a man of the most singular conduct I have ever met with," said Mr Gosport; "he seems to hold mankind in abhorrence, yet he is never a moment alone, and at the same time that he intrudes himself into all parties, he associates with none: he is commonly a stern and silent observer of all that passes, or when he speaks, it is but to utter some sentence of rigid morality, or some bitterness of indignant reproof. " The carriage was now again announced, and Mr Monckton taking Cecilia's hand, while Mr Morrice secured to himself the honour of Mrs Harrel's, Sir Robert and Mr Gosport made their bows and departed. But though they had now quitted the stage, and arrived at the head of a small stair case by which they were to descend out of the theatre, Mr Monckton, finding all his tormentors retired, except Mr Arnott, whom he hoped to elude, could not resist making one more attempt for a few moments' conversation with Cecilia; and therefore, again applying to Morrice, he called out, "I don't think you have shewn the ladies any of the contrivances behind the scenes? " "True," cried Morrice, "no more I have; suppose we go back?" "I shall like it vastly," said Mrs Harrel; and back they returned. Mr Monckton now soon found an opportunity to say to Cecilia, "Miss Beverley, what I foresaw has exactly come to pass; you are surrounded by selfish designers, by interested, double-minded people, who have nothing at heart but your fortune, and whose mercenary views, if you are not guarded against them—-" Here a loud scream from Mrs Harrel interrupted his speech; Cecilia, much alarmed, turned from him to enquire the cause, and Mr Monckton was obliged to follow her example: but his mortification was almost intolerable when he saw that lady in a violent fit of laughter, and found her scream was only occasioned by seeing Mr Morrice, in his diligence to do the honours, pull upon his own head one of the side scenes! There was now no possibility of proposing any further delay; but Mr Monckton, in attending the ladies to their carriage, was obliged to have recourse to his utmost discretion and forbearance, in order to check his desire of reprimanding Morrice for his blundering officiousness. Dressing, dining with company at home, and then going out with company abroad, filled up, as usual, the rest of the day. A SUPPLICATION. The next morning Cecilia, at the repeated remonstrances of Mrs Harrel, consented to call upon Miss Larolles. She felt the impracticability of beginning at present the alteration in her way of life she had projected, and therefore thought it most expedient to assume no singularity till her independency should enable her to support it with consistency; yet greater than ever was her internal eagerness to better satisfy her inclination and her conscience in the disposition of her time, and the distribution of her wealth, since she had heard the emphatic charge of her unknown Mentor. Mrs Harrel declined accompanying her in this visit, because she had appointed a surveyor to bring a plan for the inspection of Mr Harrel and herself, of a small temporary building, to be erected at Violet-Bank, for the purpose of performing plays in private the ensuing Easter. When the street door was opened for her to get into the carriage, she was struck with the appearance of an elderly woman who was standing at some distance, and seemed shivering with cold, and who, as she descended the steps, joined her hands in an act of supplication, and advanced nearer to the carriage. Cecilia stopt to look at her: her dress, though parsimonious, was too neat for a beggar, and she considered a moment what she could offer her. The poor woman continued to move forward, but with a slowness of pace that indicated extreme weakness; and, as she approached and raised her head, she exhibited a countenance so wretched, and a complexion so sickly, that Cecilia was impressed with horror at the sight. With her hands still joined, and a voice that seemed fearful of its own sound, "Oh madam," she cried, "that you would but hear me! " "Hear you!" repeated Cecilia, hastily feeling for her purse; "most certainly, and tell me how I shall assist you. " "Heaven bless you for speaking so kindly, madam!" cried the woman, with a voice more assured; "I was sadly afraid you would be angry, but I saw the carriage at the door, and I thought I would try; for I could be no worse; and distress, madam, makes very bold. " "Angry!" said Cecilia, taking a crown from her purse; "no, indeed!—who could see such wretchedness, and feel any thing but pity? " "Oh madam," returned the poor woman, "I could almost cry to hear you talk so, though I never thought to cry again, since I left it off for my poor Billy! " "Have you, then, lost a son?" "Yes, madam; but he was a great deal too good to live, so I have quite left off grieving for him now. " "Come in, good woman," said Cecilia, "it is too cold to stand here, and you seem half-starved already: come in, and let me have some talk with you. " She then gave orders that the carriage should be driven round the square till she was ready, and making the woman follow her into a parlour, desired to know what she should do for her; changing, while she spoke, from a movement of encreasing compassion, the crown which she held in her hand for double that sum. "You can do everything, madam," she answered, "if you will but plead for us to his honour: he little thinks of our distress, because he has been afflicted with none himself, and I would not be so troublesome to him, but indeed, indeed, madam, we are quite pinched for want! " Cecilia, struck with the words, _ he little thinks of our distress, because he has been afflicted with none himself_, felt again ashamed of the smallness of her intended donation, and taking from her purse another half guinea, said, "Will this assist you? Will a guinea be sufficient to you for the present?" "I humbly thank you, madam," said the woman, curtsying low, "shall I give you a receipt?" "A receipt?" cried Cecilia, with emotion, "for what? Alas, our accounts are by no means balanced! but I shall do more for you if I find you as deserving an object as you seem to be. " "You are very good, madam; but I only meant a receipt in part of payment. " "Payment for what? I don't understand you. " "Did his honour never tell you, madam, of our account?" "What account?" "Our bill, madam, for work done to the new Temple at Violet-Bank: it was the last great work my poor husband was able to do, for it was there he met with his misfortune. " "What bill? What misfortune?" cried Cecilia; "what had your husband to do at Violet-Bank?" "He was the carpenter, madam. I thought you might have seen poor Hill the carpenter there. " "No, I never was there myself.
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She lamented that I had been brought up in the country, which, she observed, had given me a very bumpkinish air. "Yet she told me not to despair, for she had known many girls far worse than I, who after a few years abroad had become fine ladies; she especially mentioned Miss Polly Moore, the daughter of a shopwoman, who by a trivial accident was sent to Paris, where her awkward, ill‑bred manner improved so much that she is now regarded as a woman of quality." She was pleased to introduce me to Mr. Branghton, her nephew, and to his three children—an eldest son and two younger daughters. Mr. Branghton appears about forty years of age. He appears reluctant to pursue a common understanding, though he is cynical and prejudiced; he has spent his whole life in the city, and I believe he harbors great contempt for anyone who lives elsewhere. His son appears less perceptive and more whimsical in temper, yet his frivolity is that of a foolish, overgrown schoolboy whose mirth consists only of noise and disturbance. He disdains his father for his relentless preoccupation with business and love of money, yet he himself seems to lack talent, spirit, or generosity, scarcely making him superior to either. He takes particular joy in tormenting and ridiculing his sisters, who in turn despise him most heartily. Miss Branghton, the eldest daughter, is far from ugly; her bearing is proud, ill‑temper'd, and conceited. She despises the city, even though she can't explain why; it's clear she has never lived elsewhere. Miss Polly Branghton is rather pretty, yet quite foolish, ignorant, and giddy, though I believe she is also very good‑natured. The first half‑hour was devoted to settling in: they’d come from Snow Hill—where Mr Branghton runs a silversmith’s shop—on a dirty walk, so the young ladies had to brush and dry their coats and shoes and straighten their bonnets, which had become completely disheveled. Madame Duval’s enthusiastic introduction of me to this family utterly astonished me. "Here, my dears," she said, "here is a relative you have known little of—my poor Caroline had this child after she ran away from me. I learned nothing of it for a long time because they kept it a secret from me, and the child has had no other friend in the world." "Miss seems very tender‑hearted, Aunt," said Miss Polly; "and, to be sure, she is not to blame for her mother's undutifulness—she could not help it." “Lord, no,” she answered, “I never really paid any attention to it. In truth, my own poor daughter isn’t as at fault as you might suppose—she wouldn’t have strayed had it not been for that meddling old parson I told you about.” "If Aunt pleases," said young Mr. Branghton, "let's talk about something else, as Miss seems quite uneasy." The next topic selected was the ages of the three young Branghtons and myself. The son was twenty; upon learning that I was seventeen, the daughters remarked that it matched Miss Polly’s age, yet their brother, after a lengthy dispute, proved that she was actually two years older—an outcome that enraged both sisters, who agreed that he was ill‑natured and spiteful. Once that point was settled, the question arose: who was tallest? We were asked to measure, though the Branghtons held different opinions. None of them disputed that I was the tallest in the company, yet they were extremely quarrelsome: the brother insisted on a fair measurement—without resorting to heads and heels—while the others refused to surrender their feminine privileges; as a result the young man was declared the shortest, even though he protested the injustice of the decision. With the ceremony over, the young ladies eagerly began to examine my dress and interrogate me about it. This apron's your own work, I suppose, Miss? but these sprigs a'n't in fashion now. If it is not too forward, how many yards of lute string do you have, and do you also make your own caps, Miss? and many other questions equally interesting and well-bred. Then they asked me how I liked London? and whether I will consider the country quite dull when I return there? Mr Branghton remarked, “If she can’t secure a good husband, she ought to try; only then can she stay and live here.” The next subject turn the conversation to public venues—specifically, the theatres, since that was their only option—and everyone weighed the strengths and weaknesses of the actors and actresses. The young man in the room took the helm of the discussion, clearly well‑versed in the matter. During this period, I was deeply concerned and outraged to learn that Madame Duval was confiding the most secret and cruel details of my circumstances to Mr. Branghton. The eldest daughter was quickly drawn to the recital, while the youngest and the son stayed at their places, it seemed they intended to divert me, though the conversation was entirely their own. Soon after, Miss Branghton sprang over to her sister and cried, “Lord, Polly, you have to see this!” Miss never saw her papa! " " Lord, how odd!" cried the other; "why, then, Miss, I suppose you wouldn't know him? " It was far too much for me; I sprang up and fled the room, only to later regret that I had barely any control over myself, for both sisters followed, pressing their attempts to comfort me despite my earnest pleas to be left alone. The moment I rejoined the gathering, Madame Duval leaned in and asked, “My dear, what’s wrong with you?” why did you run away so?" This question almost made me run again, for I knew not how to answer it. But isn’t it extraordinary that she throws me into such shocking situations, only to wonder if I’m even capable of being sensible? Mr. Branghton junior asked me whether I had ever seen the Tower or St. Paul’s Church. When I answered negatively, they suggested hosting a party to show it to me. Among other questions, they also asked whether I had ever seen an opera. I told them I had. " “Well,” said Mr. Branghton, “I’ve never seen an opera in all my life, not even while living in London, and I don’t wish to see one if I remain here any longer.” Lord, papa," cried Miss Polly, "why not? You might as well try it once, just out of curiosity—after all, Miss Pomfret has seen one, and she says it was very pretty. Miss Branghton said, “Miss will think we are very vulgar for living in London and never having been to an opera, but it’s no fault of ours—as I assure you, Miss, the only problem is that our father doesn't like going.” The result was, that a party was proposed, and agreed to, for some early opportunity. I did not dare contradict them, but I declared that my time while in town would be at Mrs. Mirvan’s disposal. However, I am certain I will decline their invitation if it can be avoided. After we parted, Madame Duval requested to see me the next day, and the Branghtons added they would be delighted if I paid them a visit at Snow Hill on my first trip there. I wish we may not meet again till that time arrives. I’m certain I will not seek to become acquainted with any more relatives, should they resemble those I’ve already met. I had just finished my letter to you this morning when a violent knock at the door made me rush downstairs, and who I found in the drawing room but Lord Orville. He was quite alone, for the family had not assembled to breakfast. He inquired first of mine, then of the health of Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, with a degree of concern that rather surprised me, till he said he had just been informed of the accident we had met with at Ranelagh.
| 0.8
|
Young women -- Fiction
|
Burney, Fanny
|
Burney, Fanny
|
6346
|
6053
|
Burney, Fanny_[Cecilia; Or, Memoirs of an Heiress — Volume 1]_1500_16
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Burney, Fanny_[Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World]_1500_16_0.7
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I will speak to her of this, and show her how great is the sin of opposing a holy vocation in a soul whom the Lord calls to Himself, and enjoin her to make reparation by uniting with you in this holy work. " Agnes left the confessional without even turning to look at her director, who, seated inside, listened to the rustle of her dress as she rose and the soft fall of her footsteps, praying that grace might give him the strength to watch over her, yet he did not, though it seemed as if his life were accompanying hers. Agnes hurried past the aisle toward a small side chapel, where she always kept a candle burning before a portrait of Saint Agnes, and there she knelt until her grandmother finished confessing. Ah, sweet Saint Agnes," she said, "pity me! I am a poor, ignorant young girl, led into grievous sin, yet I did not intend to err; I have been striving to do right—pray for me that I may overcome, as you did. We pray that our dear Lord will send you with us on this pilgrimage and shield us from all wicked and brutal men who would harm us. May the Lord have delivered you from your most desperate trials, keeping your soul and body as pure as a lily; I pray that He may keep me as well. I love you dearly,—watch over me and guide me. " In those days of the Church, such addresses to the glorified saints had become common among all Christians. They were not treated as worship, no more than an earnest expression of confidence toward a beloved, revered friend in the flesh. Among the hymns of Savonarola is one addressed to Saint Mary Magdalen, whom he regarded with an especial veneration. The great truth—that God is not the God of the dead but the God of the living, and that all live for Him—was part of the spiritual consciousness of the truly religious in those ages. The triumphant saints of the Church, who had become one with Christ just as He is one with the Father, were believed to possess a share of His divinity and to serve as ministers through which His mediatorial governance was carried out on earth; it was thought that the heartfelt devotion of the faithful could draw them closer, so that their presence frequently enveloped everyday life in a sweet, healing, and protective cloud. If devotion to these unseen companions became extravagant—so intense that it adopted the language reserved only for God—it would simply mirror the fervent Italian habit of addressing earthly objects of affection with equally lofty words. In Italian, love frequently turns into worship, and the poets’ words for earthly affection swell into intense devotion—yet only because of the One, Sovereign, Eternal Beauty. Cicero’s own writings demonstrate that this fervent, adoring love is not confined to the present age. When he loses the daughter who has captured his heart, his only consolation is to erect a temple in her memory—a foolish attempt at saint‑worship. Agnes rose from her devotions, her gaze cast down and her lips still murmuring prayers, and she set off for the font of holy water, tucked into a dim, shadow‑filled corner where a painted window washed it in a golden‑violet twilight. Suddenly a rustle of clothing filled the dim chamber, and a jeweled hand reached out to pour holy water over her, the liquid resting on the tip of its finger. Agnes, in a customary gesture of Christian fraternity, almost mechanically brushed her slender finger against the hand extended to her, made the sign of the cross, and lifted her eyes to see who stood there. Gradually the haze cleared from her mind, and she awoke to the consciousness that it was the cavalier! He approached her with a bright smile, but suddenly she turned pale, as if she had seen a specter; clutching herself with both hands, she whispered, "Go, go!" She turned and hurried through the aisle, moving like a sunbeam, to join her grandmother, who emerged from the confessional with a gloomy, sullen expression. Old Elsie was instructed to join her grandchild on the pilgrimage, but she met the directive with the same inner obstinacy a prosperous church‑goer on Wall Street would show when asked to attend a lengthy meeting at the height of the business season. She acknowledged that pilgrimages were truly holy and gracious works—after all, she was too devout a Christian to deny it—but she questioned why these pious acts were being thrust upon her in particular. Many saints favored such devotions, yet people can reach heaven not by a grandiose entrance but through a modest path, and Elsie’s desire for spiritual status and wealth was decidedly moderate. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” she told Agnes, pulling her along with a hand that was far from gentle. “You’ve set me on a pilgrimage, and my old bones will have to rattle up every hill from here to Rome— and who will watch the oranges? They’re all going to be stolen.” Grandmother"—began Agnes in a pleading voice. " Oh, you hush up! I know what you're going to say. ' The good Lord will take care of them.' I wish He may. He is overwhelmed by all the people who caw and psalm‑sing like a flock of crows, leaving every concern to Him. Agnes walked along disconsolate, with her eyes full of tears, which coursed one another down her pale cheeks. " There's Antonio," pursued Elsie, "would perhaps look after things a little. He is a good fellow, and only yesterday was asking if he couldn't do something for us. It's you he does it for,—but little you care who loves you, or what they do for you! " At that moment they met elder Jocunda, whom we had previously introduced to the reader as the convent’s portress. She had on her arm a large square basket, which she was storing for its practical uses. " Well, well, Saint Agnes be praised, I have found you at last," she said. " I was wanting to speak about some of your blood-oranges for conserving. Rewritten sentence:
The Queen has issued an order to prepare a generous portion for her own blessed dining, and you can be assured that I will secure it for you—no one else. But what's this, my little heart, my little lamb?—crying?—tears in those sweet eyes? What's the matter now?" " Matter enough for me!" said Elsie. " It's a weary world we live in. A body can't turn any way and not meet with trouble. When a society treats a girl one way, everyone seeks her and she finds no peace; but when she is raised otherwise, she drifts into reverie and her usefulness in this world seems lacking. Now look at that girl,—doesn't everybody say it's time she were married?—but no marrying for her! The only thing we can do is to head to Rome for the pilgrimage—what’s the point, I ask. If it's prayer that must be offered, the dear saints know she devotes herself from dawn to dusk—and lately she rises and lowers herself three or four times each night, tending to some prayer or other. Well, well," said Jocunda, "who started this idea?" " Oh, Father Francesco, she arranged for the two of them to meet, and I simply have no choice but to go too. Jocunda smiled and said, “Well, after all, my dear, I once went on a pilgrimage, and it wasn’t that bad.” One gets a good deal by it, first and last. As you travel, people offer small gifts to lift you above the ordinary, and in Rome you may even encounter a princess, duchess or noblewoman who washes your feet, serves a luxurious supper, perhaps gives you a new suit of clothes, and all that—and if you play your cards well, you receive a generous bonus, about tenfold your usual reward. A pilgrimage isn't bad, after all; one sees a world of fine things, and something new every day. " " But who is to look after our garden and dress our trees?" " Ah, now, there's Antonio, and old Meta his mother," said Jocunda, with a knowing wink at Agnes.
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And again he thought, "Not that he will care—and why the devil should I?" Then a stream of men and vehicles departed from the loch side, heading toward Mr. John Cameron's house at Fassefern—where Glen Suilag thinned into the mountains—yet Lochiel's burgess brother, who refused to support the Prince, had tempered his prudence by staying away from his property to avoid being charged with having entertained him. When they finally reached the gate in their turn, Ardroy turned his saddle around and spoke to the captive, promising to arrange accommodation for him provided he would not object to a brief waiting period. So Keith handed his horse over to one of Ewen's gillies, and as he pushed through the crowd he waited beneath a tree, plotting his plans. Yet truly he could do nothing until he understood how he was to be secured. Sooner than he had anticipated, his warden emerged, ushering him through a side door and carrying him up to the very top of the humming house. "I think this little room could do us in," he said as he opened the door of the small, half‑furnished garret, and Keith saw that their mail was already there. I don't know how many more will be thrown in here, but at least one bed is available. Thus, there was something like a pallet. You should establish your claim right away, Captain Windham, or I'll do it for you. Ever mindful of his prisoner’s comfort, he loosened his plaid and tossed it onto the mattress. I will bring you to supper; I anticipate there will be some. Keith couldn't help watching the departing figure, his smile carrying both amusement and fondness. He couldn’t allow his sensibility to intrude on his present thoughts. Whatever the reason, Ardroy had apparently forgotten that, as Keith checked his watch, his captive’s parole would expire in another twenty minutes, freeing him to leave. if he could. Or had he simply chosen not to announce the upcoming change of conditions, out of a sense of restraint, because doing so would have required him to station a guard? The Englishman settled on the pallet, parsing the odds of his situation. Their security hinged almost entirely on whether a Highlander would be stationed at the doorway of this room in twenty minutes. Yet Ardroy had spoken of taking him to supper. Heaven send then that supper was delayed! Perhaps he could slip out of the garret and hide elsewhere until a later chance presented itself to slip away. Waiting for darkness offered no special advantage—even if Ardroy’s lapse had gone that far—because the nights were often oddly bright. The true difficulty, at every moment, was his uniform. There he found himself gazing at the roll from Ewen Cameron’s saddle, resting on the solitary, half‑broken chair. However, Keith Windham’s pride was such that he could not maintain strict fidelity to his word. He could scarcely stop an escape plan from taking root in his mind, yet he would refuse to take even the slightest step toward executing it before the appointed hour arrived. To occupy himself, he started scribbling a note to justify his conduct; unsure whether he should destroy it before completing it, he tore a leaf from his pocket‑book and began, “DEAR MR.” CAMERON — To justify my unadvertised departure, I wish to remind you that I gave my parole of honour for a fortnight from the day and hour of my capture by you on Friday evening. “Within ten minutes the period will have expired, and I trust you will not regard it as an infraction of military honour that, without having first reminded you of this fact, I intend to seek my freedom at half‑past six.” I will always cherish your kind hospitality; though the journey over the past few days has been somewhat prolonged, it has enabled me to be present at this most interesting occasion. Adieu, and forgive me for supposing that, once you are more accustomed to a military life, you will not repeat the oversight by which I hope to profit.
Your most obedient, humble servant,
KEITH WINDHAM, Captain. Having finished the effusion, which undeniably brought him special pleasure, he still waited, watch in hand. At exactly half‑past six he rose from the pallet, feeling the urge of a footpad, and pried open Ardroy’s modest baggage with hurried fingers. Inside, he uncovered a clean shirt, a pair of stockings, a few miscellaneous items, and—most unexpectedly—a kilt. The plunderer held the garment up in dismay, wishing he’d had trews like Ardroy’s; instead, he quickly surveyed his bare knees with equal disgust and misgiving. None of the knees he’d seen under tartan that week matched its white whiteness. Thankfully the garret was dust‑laden, so even if his legs were not strikingly tanned, they could at least appear soiled. He initially contemplated keeping his uniform coat, convinced the Ardroy plaid would hide it—how fortunate that it had left it behind—but the trousers were a touch too long and the blue cuffs with their galons too conspicuous, so he decided to go coatless. Thereupon he began experimenting with the plaid—what a mess of it was! He longed for a bonnet he could pull up over his brows. but one could not anticipate that everything would be supplied. The want, however, reminded him of his incongruous wig, and he took it off and laid it, with his discarded uniform, beneath the mattress. There, clad in a costume he would soon regard as that of a Red Indian, he felt uneasy—Ardroy’s kilt was too large and he could not fasten it tighter. Still no sign of any person coming. Keith eyed his host’s rifled baggage with suspicion. His duty was to regain his liberty through lawful means, yet he had unquestionably behaved like a pickpocket. The only way to make amends was to reimburse him for the clothes he’d taken, for nothing he had abandoned could serve as a satisfactory replacement. He drew out his purse, unsure of the stolen garments’ worth and, even more uncertain, how Ardroy would receive the payment; though he feared the Highlander might resent it, he felt compelled to settle his conscience. He slipped three guineas into his farewell letter and set the letter on the chair. He softly opened the garret door, climbed to the top of the stairs, and listened. In the immediate surroundings of the tiny room lay empty silence, and the murmur below implied that the bustling activity within Fassefern House that evening would more likely aid than obstruct a disguised Cameron trying to slip away unnoticed. Captain Windham settled the plaid to his liking and, with an air of nonchalance, began to descend the stairs. His fingers trembled as he gripped the top of the philabeg, and his legs felt unbearably cold. About three‑quarters of an hour later, Donald Cameron of Lochiel and Alexander MacDonald of Keppoch—whose clansmen had held High Bridge—were speaking together at the front of Fassefern House. About an hour earlier it had been decided that the heavy baggage would be sent that night along the southwest side of Loch Eil with a strong convoy of Camerons. A sizable escort was essential because at Corpach the convoy would have to squeeze through the neighbourhood of Fort William on the opposite shore—a danger the Prince and his small force would avoid the next day by taking a route through Glen Suilag, which was inaccessible to the baggage train. Lochiel concluded, “I’m sending my young cousin Ardroy to command it, though the news was a sudden blow to him.” But he will be ready; he is a very punctual person, is Ewen.
| 0.4
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Historical fiction
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Crowfield, Christopher
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Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen)
|
43076
|
72918
|
Crowfield, Christopher_[Agnes of Sorrento]_1500_53_0.5
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Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen)_[Algemeene Geschiedenis in Verhalen: Oudheid]_1500_20_0.9
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" There were some handshakings and deep speeches with men whose features were familiar, but with whom the youth now felt the bonds of tied hearts. He helped a cursing comrade to bind up a wound of the shin. But, of a sudden, cries of amazement broke out along the ranks of the new regiment. "Here they come ag'in! Here they come ag'in!" The man who had sprawled upon the ground started up and said, "Gosh!" The youth turned quick eyes upon the field. He discerned forms begin to swell in masses out of a distant wood. He again saw the tilted flag speeding forward. The shells, which had ceased to trouble the regiment for a time, came swirling again, and exploded in the grass or among the leaves of the trees. They looked to be strange war flowers bursting into fierce bloom. The men groaned. The luster faded from their eyes. Their smudged countenances now expressed a profound dejection. They moved their stiffened bodies slowly, and watched in sullen mood the frantic approach of the enemy. The slaves toiling in the temple of this god began to feel rebellion at his harsh tasks. They fretted and complained each to each. "Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing! Why can't somebody send us supports?" "We ain't never goin' to stand this second banging. I didn't come here to fight the hull damn' rebel army. " There was one who raised a doleful cry. "I wish Bill Smithers had trod on my hand, insteader me treddin' on his'n." The sore joints of the regiment creaked as it painfully floundered into position to repulse. The youth stared. Surely, he thought, this impossible thing was not about to happen. He waited as if he expected the enemy to suddenly stop, apologize, and retire bowing. It was all a mistake. But the firing began somewhere on the regimental line and ripped along in both directions. The level sheets of flame developed great clouds of smoke that tumbled and tossed in the mild wind near the ground for a moment, and then rolled through the ranks as through a gate. The clouds were tinged an earthlike yellow in the sunrays and in the shadow were a sorry blue. The flag was sometimes eaten and lost in this mass of vapor, but more often it projected, sun-touched, resplendent. Into the youth's eyes there came a look that one can see in the orbs of a jaded horse. His neck was quivering with nervous weakness and the muscles of his arms felt numb and bloodless. His hands, too, seemed large and awkward as if he was wearing invisible mittens. And there was a great uncertainty about his knee joints. The words that comrades had uttered previous to the firing began to recur to him. "Oh, say, this is too much of a good thing! What do they take us for—why don't they send supports? I didn't come here to fight the hull damned rebel army. " He began to exaggerate the endurance, the skill, and the valor of those who were coming. Himself reeling from exhaustion, he was astonished beyond measure at such persistency. They must be machines of steel. It was very gloomy struggling against such affairs, wound up perhaps to fight until sundown. He slowly lifted his rifle and catching a glimpse of the thickspread field he blazed at a cantering cluster. He stopped then and began to peer as best he could through the smoke. He caught changing views of the ground covered with men who were all running like pursued imps, and yelling. To the youth it was an onslaught of redoubtable dragons. He became like the man who lost his legs at the approach of the red and green monster. He waited in a sort of a horrified, listening attitude. He seemed to shut his eyes and wait to be gobbled. A man near him who up to this time had been working feverishly at his rifle suddenly stopped and ran with howls. A lad whose face had borne an expression of exalted courage, the majesty of he who dares give his life, was, at an instant, smitten abject. He blanched like one who has come to the edge of a cliff at midnight and is suddenly made aware. There was a revelation. He, too, threw down his gun and fled. There was no shame in his face. He ran like a rabbit. Others began to scamper away through the smoke. The youth turned his head, shaken from his trance by this movement as if the regiment was leaving him behind. He saw the few fleeting forms. He yelled then with fright and swung about. For a moment, in the great clamor, he was like a proverbial chicken. He lost the direction of safety. Destruction threatened him from all points. Directly he began to speed toward the rear in great leaps. His rifle and cap were gone. His unbuttoned coat bulged in the wind. The flap of his cartridge box bobbed wildly, and his canteen, by its slender cord, swung out behind. On his face was all the horror of those things which he imagined. The lieutenant sprang forward bawling. The youth saw his features wrathfully red, and saw him make a dab with his sword. His one thought of the incident was that the lieutenant was a peculiar creature to feel interested in such matters upon this occasion. He ran like a blind man. Two or three times he fell down. Once he knocked his shoulder so heavily against a tree that he went headlong. Since he had turned his back upon the fight his fears had been wondrously magnified. Death about to thrust him between the shoulder blades was far more dreadful than death about to smite him between the eyes. When he thought of it later, he conceived the impression that it is better to view the appalling than to be merely within hearing. The noises of the battle were like stones; he believed himself liable to be crushed. As he ran he mingled with others. He dimly saw men on his right and on his left, and he heard footsteps behind him. He thought that all the regiment was fleeing, pursued by these ominous crashes. In his flight the sound of these following footsteps gave him his one meager relief. He felt vaguely that death must make a first choice of the men who were nearest; the initial morsels for the dragons would be then those who were following him. So he displayed the zeal of an insane sprinter in his purpose to keep them in the rear. There was a race. As he, leading, went across a little field, he found himself in a region of shells. They hurtled over his head with long wild screams. As he listened he imagined them to have rows of cruel teeth that grinned at him. Once one lit before him and the livid lightning of the explosion effectually barred the way in his chosen direction. He groveled on the ground and then springing up went careering off through some bushes. He experienced a thrill of amazement when he came within view of a battery in action. The men there seemed to be in conventional moods, altogether unaware of the impending annihilation. The battery was disputing with a distant antagonist and the gunners were wrapped in admiration of their shooting. They were continually bending in coaxing postures over the guns. They seemed to be patting them on the back and encouraging them with words. The guns, stolid and undaunted, spoke with dogged valor. The precise gunners were coolly enthusiastic. They lifted their eyes every chance to the smoke-wreathed hillock from whence the hostile battery addressed them. The youth pitied them as he ran. Methodical idiots! Machine-like fools! The refined joy of planting shells in the midst of the other battery's formation would appear a little thing when the infantry came swooping out of the woods. The face of a youthful rider, who was jerking his frantic horse with an abandon of temper he might display in a placid barnyard, was impressed deeply upon his mind. He knew that he looked upon a man who would presently be dead. Too, he felt a pity for the guns, standing, six good comrades, in a bold row. He saw a brigade going to the relief of its pestered fellows. He scrambled upon a wee hill and watched it sweeping finely, keeping formation in difficult places. The blue of the line was crusted with steel color, and the brilliant flags projected. Officers were shouting. This sight also filled him with wonder. The brigade was hurrying briskly to be gulped into the infernal mouths of the war god. What manner of men were they, anyhow? Ah, it was some wondrous breed! Or else they didn't comprehend—the fools.
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He fought frantically for respite for his senses, for air, as a babe being smothered attacks the deadly blankets. There was a blare of heated rage mingled with a certain expression of intentness on all faces. Many of the men were making low-toned noises with their mouths, and these subdued cheers, snarls, imprecations, prayers, made a wild, barbaric song that went as an undercurrent of sound, strange and chantlike with the resounding chords of the war march. The man at the youth's elbow was babbling. In it there was something soft and tender like the monologue of a babe. The tall soldier was swearing in a loud voice. From his lips came a black procession of curious oaths. Of a sudden another broke out in a querulous way like a man who has mislaid his hat. "Well, why don't they support us? Why don't they send supports? Do they think—" The youth in his battle sleep heard this as one who dozes hears. There was a singular absence of heroic poses. The men bending and surging in their haste and rage were in every impossible attitude. The steel ramrods clanked and clanged with incessant din as the men pounded them furiously into the hot rifle barrels. The flaps of the cartridge boxes were all unfastened, and bobbed idiotically with each movement. The rifles, once loaded, were jerked to the shoulder and fired without apparent aim into the smoke or at one of the blurred and shifting forms which upon the field before the regiment had been growing larger and larger like puppets under a magician's hand. The officers, at their intervals, rearward, neglected to stand in picturesque attitudes. They were bobbing to and fro roaring directions and encouragements. The dimensions of their howls were extraordinary. They expended their lungs with prodigal wills. And often they nearly stood upon their heads in their anxiety to observe the enemy on the other side of the tumbling smoke. The lieutenant of the youth's company had encountered a soldier who had fled screaming at the first volley of his comrades. Behind the lines these two were acting a little isolated scene. The man was blubbering and staring with sheeplike eyes at the lieutenant, who had seized him by the collar and was pommeling him. He drove him back into the ranks with many blows. The soldier went mechanically, dully, with his animal-like eyes upon the officer. Perhaps there was to him a divinity expressed in the voice of the other—stern, hard, with no reflection of fear in it. He tried to reload his gun, but his shaking hands prevented. The lieutenant was obliged to assist him. The men dropped here and there like bundles. The captain of the youth's company had been killed in an early part of the action. His body lay stretched out in the position of a tired man resting, but upon his face there was an astonished and sorrowful look, as if he thought some friend had done him an ill turn. The babbling man was grazed by a shot that made the blood stream widely down his face. He clapped both hands to his head. "Oh!" he said, and ran. Another grunted suddenly as if he had been struck by a club in the stomach. He sat down and gazed ruefully. In his eyes there was mute, indefinite reproach. Farther up the line a man, standing behind a tree, had had his knee joint splintered by a ball. Immediately he had dropped his rifle and gripped the tree with both arms. And there he remained, clinging desperately and crying for assistance that he might withdraw his hold upon the tree. At last an exultant yell went along the quivering line. The firing dwindled from an uproar to a last vindictive popping. As the smoke slowly eddied away, the youth saw that the charge had been repulsed. The enemy were scattered into reluctant groups. He saw a man climb to the top of the fence, straddle the rail, and fire a parting shot. The waves had receded, leaving bits of dark débris upon the ground. Some in the regiment began to whoop frenziedly. Many were silent. Apparently they were trying to contemplate themselves. After the fever had left his veins, the youth thought that at last he was going to suffocate. He became aware of the foul atmosphere in which he had been struggling. He was grimy and dripping like a laborer in a foundry. He grasped his canteen and took a long swallow of the warmed water. A sentence with variations went up and down the line. "Well, we've helt 'em back. We've helt 'em back; derned if we haven't." The men said it blissfully, leering at each other with dirty smiles. The youth turned to look behind him and off to the right and off to the left. He experienced the joy of a man who at last finds leisure in which to look about him. Under foot there were a few ghastly forms motionless. They lay twisted in fantastic contortions. Arms were bent and heads were turned in incredible ways. It seemed that the dead men must have fallen from some great height to get into such positions. They looked to be dumped out upon the ground from the sky. From a position in the rear of the grove a battery was throwing shells over it. The flash of the guns startled the youth at first. He thought they were aimed directly at him. Through the trees he watched the black figures of the gunners as they worked swiftly and intently. Their labor seemed a complicated thing. He wondered how they could remember its formula in the midst of confusion. The guns squatted in a row like savage chiefs. They argued with abrupt violence. It was a grim pow-wow. Their busy servants ran hither and thither. A small procession of wounded men were going drearily toward the rear. It was a flow of blood from the torn body of the brigade. To the right and to the left were the dark lines of other troops. Far in front he thought he could see lighter masses protruding in points from the forest. They were suggestive of unnumbered thousands. Once he saw a tiny battery go dashing along the line of the horizon. The tiny riders were beating the tiny horses. From a sloping hill came the sound of cheerings and clashes. Smoke welled slowly through the leaves. Batteries were speaking with thunderous oratorical effort. Here and there were flags, the red in the stripes dominating. They splashed bits of warm color upon the dark lines of troops. The youth felt the old thrill at the sight of the emblems. They were like beautiful birds strangely undaunted in a storm. As he listened to the din from the hillside, to a deep pulsating thunder that came from afar to the left, and to the lesser clamors which came from many directions, it occurred to him that they were fighting, too, over there, and over there, and over there. Heretofore he had supposed that all the battle was directly under his nose. As he gazed around him the youth felt a flash of astonishment at the blue, pure sky and the sun gleamings on the trees and fields. It was surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process in the midst of so much devilment. The youth awakened slowly. He came gradually back to a position from which he could regard himself. For moments he had been scrutinizing his person in a dazed way as if he had never before seen himself. Then he picked up his cap from the ground. He wriggled in his jacket to make a more comfortable fit, and kneeling relaced his shoe. He thoughtfully mopped his reeking features. So it was all over at last! The supreme trial had been passed. The red, formidable difficulties of war had been vanquished. He went into an ecstasy of self-satisfaction. He had the most delightful sensations of his life. Standing as if apart from himself, he viewed that last scene. He perceived that the man who had fought thus was magnificent. He felt that he was a fine fellow. He saw himself even with those ideals which he had considered as far beyond him. He smiled in deep gratification. Upon his fellows he beamed tenderness and good will. "Gee! ain't it hot, hey?" he said affably to a man who was polishing his streaming face with his coat sleeves. "You bet!" said the other, grinning sociably. "I never seen sech dumb hotness." He sprawled out luxuriously on the ground. "Gee, yes! An' I hope we don't have no more fightin' till a week from Monday.
| 1
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Historical fiction
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Crane, Stephen
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Crane, Stephen
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463
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73
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Crane, Stephen_[The Winning of the West, Volume 3 The Founding of the Trans-Alleghany Commonwealths, 1784-1790]_1500_10
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Crane, Stephen_[The Red Badge of Courage: An Episode of the American Civil War]_1500_9
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For a while she was caught and tossed on great waves of anguish that left her hardly conscious of anything but the blind struggle against their assaults. Then, little by little, she began to relive, with a dreadful poignancy, each separate stage of her poor romance. The foolish words she’d spoken surfaced again—Harney’s playful replies, that first kiss in the glow of the fireworks, the moment they chose the blue brooch together, and the teasing he’d given her about the letters she’d abandoned on her escape from the evangelist. All those memories, along with countless others, vibrated through her mind until his presence became so palpable she felt his fingers in her hair and his warm breath on her cheek as he gently tilted her head back, treating her like a delicate flower. These things were hers; they had woven themselves into her blood, become part of her, and were shaping the child in her womb, making it impossible to unravel the interwoven strands of her life. The conviction gradually strengthened her, and she began to form in her mind the first words of the letter she meant to write to Harney. She wanted to write it at once, and with feverish hands she began to rummage in her drawer for a sheet of letter paper. But there was none left; she must go downstairs to get it. She felt a superstition that the letter had to be written at once, believing that setting her secret down in words would grant her reassurance and safety; clutching her candle, she walked down to Mr. Royall’s office. At that hour she was not likely to find him there: he had probably had his supper and walked over to Carrick Fry's. She pushed open the door of the unlit room, and the light of her lifted candle fell on his figure, seated in the darkness in his high-backed chair. His arms lay along the arms of the chair, and his head was bent a little; but he lifted it quickly as Charity entered. She started back as their eyes met, remembering that her own were red with weeping, and that her face was livid with the fatigue and emotion of her journey. But it was too late to escape, and she stood and looked at him in silence. He had risen from his chair, and came toward her with outstretched hands. The gesture was so unexpected that she let him take her hands in his and they stood thus, without speaking, till Mr. Royall said gravely: "Charity—was you looking for me?" She freed herself abruptly and fell back. " Me? No——" She set down the candle on his desk. " I wanted some letter-paper, that's all." His face contracted, and the bushy brows jutted forward over his eyes. Without answering he opened the drawer of the desk, took out a sheet of paper and an envelope, and pushed them toward her. " Do you want a stamp too?" he asked. She nodded, and he gave her the stamp. As he did, she sensed his gaze fixated on her and realized that the flickering candlelight on her pale face distorted her flushed features, exaggerating the dark circles around her eyes. She snatched the paper, her sense of calm dissolving under his ruthless gaze, where she could almost see his bleak appraisal of her state and the ironic recollection of that day in the same room when he had offered to force Harney to marry her. His look suggested he knew she’d taken the paper to write to the lover who had left her—exactly as he had warned her. She remembered the scorn with which she had turned from him that day, and knew, if he guessed the truth, what a list of old scores it must settle. She fled upstairs, yet when she returned the words she had been holding vanished; had she gone to Harney instead, the outcome might have been different, for she would only need to present herself and let his memories speak on her behalf. But she had no money left, and there was no one from whom she could have borrowed enough for such a journey. There was nothing to do but to write, and await his reply. For a long time she hunched over the blank page, yet she could find no words that truly conveyed her emotions. Harney had written that she had made things easier for him, and she was thankful for that—she had no desire to complicate matters. She knew she had it in her power to do that; she held his fate in her hands. All she had to do was tell him the truth, but that very truth was what kept her from doing it; the brief moment she spent face‑to‑face with Mr. Royall stripped away her last illusion and threw her back into North Dormer’s point of view. Distinctly and pitilessly there rose before her the fate of the girl who was married "to make things right." She had seen too many village love-stories end in that way. Poor Rose Coles's miserable marriage was of the number; and what good had come of it for her or for Halston Skeff? They had loathed one another from the day the minister married them, and whenever old Mrs. Skeff fancied humiliating her daughter‑in‑law, she would simply exclaim, “Who’d ever think the baby’s only two?” And for a seven months' child—ain't it a wonder what a size he is?" North Dormer prized indulgence for its brands yet scorned those who managed to escape its grasp; Charity always understood Julia Hawes’s refusal to be snatched—was there no alternative except Julia’s own? Her soul recoiled from the vision of the white-faced woman among the plush sofas and gilt frames. Within the established order she knew, there was no place for her personal adventure, so she sat in her chair—undressed—until faint gray streaks began to split the black slats of the shutters. Then she stood up and pushed them open, letting in the light. The coming of a new day brought a sharper consciousness of ineluctable reality, and with it a sense of the need of action. Peering at her reflection, she saw a pallid face at dawn, cheeks drawn tight and eyes circled in shadow—marks of her illness that she could have missed, but that Dr. Merkle’s diagnosis had made unmistakable. She could not hope that those signs would escape the watchful village; even before her figure lost its shape she knew her face would betray her. From her window, she leaned out and stared at the bleak, desolate view: ash‑grey houses with shutters shut, a dull road climbing up to the hemlock belt above the cemetery, and the towering mass of the Mountain looming black against the rain‑swept sky. To the east a space of light was broadening above the forest; but over that also the clouds hung. Slowly her gaze travelled across the fields to the rugged curve of the hills. She had stared long into that bleak circle, wondering whether anything could ever happen to the ones confined within it. She supposed it was something in her blood that made the Mountain the only answer to her questioning, the inevitable escape from all that hemmed her in and beset her. And yet it loomed over the rainy dawn; the longer she stared, the clearer she realized that she was, at last, truly heading there. XVI THE rain held off, and an hour later, when she started, wild gleams of sunlight were blowing across the fields. After Harney's departure she had returned her bicycle to its owner at Creston, and she was not sure of being able to walk all the way to the Mountain. The deserted house lay along the road, but the idea of spending a night there was unbearable; she intended to push on toward Hamblin, where she could hide beneath a wood shed should her strength fail her. Her preparations had been made with quiet forethought.
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In the hollow of the skull we found a very slender wire of sharp steel; this caused great surprise and inquiry. The father, a wealthy miser, died suddenly and was hastily buried, it was said, because of the oppressive heat. Once suspicion was aroused, the examination became highly meticulous. The servant of the old man was interrogated and eventually confessed that his son had killed the father. The device was ingeniously crafted; its razor‑thin wire pierced the skull, extracting only a single drop of blood that the gray hair concealed. The accomplice was put to death. Did this stranger present any evidence? No, the count interjected, claiming he had merely strolled into the church that morning by accident, noted Count Salvolio’s tombstone, and had been told by his guide that the Count’s son was a spendthrift gambler in Naples. While we were playing, we heard the count’s name mentioned at the table, and when the challenge was issued and accepted, he instinctively quoted the burial site, an impulse he could not explain. Merton said, “What a very weak story.” Yes, yet we Italians cling to superstition. That purported instinct was hailed as a whisper from Providence, and the stranger instantly rose to the status of a universal focus of fascination. His wealth, refined manner of living, and extraordinary personal beauty have also helped make him a craze. What is his name?" asked Glyndon. " Zicci. Signor Zicci. " " Isn't it an Italian name? He speaks English with native fluency. To my knowledge, he speaks French, German, and Italian. He claims to be born a Corsican, yet I find no record of a distinguished Corsican family with his name. However, does his birth or parentage matter? He is wealthy, generous, and the most skilled swordsman I have ever encountered. Who would affront him?" " Certainly not," replied Merton as he stood up. Come, Glyndon, shall we find our hotel? It is almost daylight. Adieu, signor." " What do you think of this story? Glyndon spoke as the young men walked homeward. It is plain that Zicci is an impostor — a clever rogue; the Neapolitan offers him a share of the spoils and swallows him with the old‑fashioned charlatanism of the marvelous. A bewildering newcomer breaks into high society by becoming the center of fascination; he is devilishly handsome, and women are content to accept him on the basis of his looks alone and the tales of Cetoxa. I cannot agree with you. Although a gambler and a rake, Cetoxa is a nobleman by birth, celebrated for his courage and honor. Furthermore, the stranger’s grand features and dignified air—peaceful, unassuming—stand in stark contrast to an impostor’s brash, talkative manner. My dear Glyndon, excuse me, but you are still a novice to worldly affairs; the stranger poses as the finest of men, yet his grandiloquent bearing is simply a clever ruse. But to change the subject, how is the love affair going? Oh! Isabel cannot see me this evening. The old woman handed me an apology note. You should not marry her; what would everyone say at home? “Let's savor the moment,” Glyndon exclaimed brightly; “we’re young, prosperous, and handsome—let’s not think about tomorrow.” Bravo, Glyndon! We have arrived at the hotel. Sleep soundly, and do not dream of Signor Zicci. Clarence Glyndon was a young man with a modest yet self‑sufficient fortune. From a young age he had shown considerable promise in the art of painting, and, driven more by enthusiasm than by a lack of job prospects, he resolved to devote himself to a profession that in England is rarely entered by those who can sustain themselves on their own means. Although not a poet by trade, Glyndon possessed a natural flair for verse that helped him secure a place in society well beyond his birth. From his youth onward, he was spoiled and flattered, and the indulgence and worldly, self‑serving mindset bred by frivolous companionship gradually slackened his natural talents, eroding both his stern virtues and his lofty genius. His imagination flourished, yet the feelings that fed it had grown languorous and inert. His youthful vanity, restless daring, and thirst for adventure had repeatedly thrust him into perilous dilemmas, from which he lately always managed to extricate himself with clever, cool-headed ingenuity. He set off from England to Rome with a firm, declared intention to study the great divine masterpieces, yet the lure of pleasure soon diverted him from ambition, so he left Rome’s somber palaces for Naples’ bright shores and vibrant revelries. There he had fallen deeply in love with Isabel di Pisani, the celebrated young woman of Naples. She was the sole daughter of an Italian father and an English mother. In his former prosperous years, the father had traveled widely and won the affections of a wealthy Englishwoman. Prompted to take up speculation, he lost everything, settled in Naples, and taught languages and music. By the time Isabel—named after her mother—reached ten years old, his wife had already died. When she was sixteen, she debuted on stage; two years later her father died, leaving Isabel orphaned. Glyndon, a pleasure‑seeker who regularly attended the theatre, noticed a young actress backstage, fell in love with her, and confided in her his affection. The girl listened to him—perhaps out of vanity, ambition, or coquetry—and granted only a handful of furtive meetings, offering the Englishman no favor, a fact that was one of the reasons he loved her. The next day after our story opens, Glydon rode alone along the Neapolitan coast, on the far side of the Cavern of Pausilippo. Beyond noon the sun had surrendered its early blaze, and a cool breeze drifted languidly from the glittering surf. Bending over a stone fragment along the roadside, he caught sight of a man's silhouette, and as he drew near he recognized it was Zicci. The Englishman saluted him courteously. " Have you discovered some antique?" With a smile, he remarked, “They’re as common as pebbles on this road.” “No,” replied Zicci; “It was but one of those antiques whose origin stretches back to the very beginning of the world, yet Nature forever withers and renews it.” With that remark, he handed Glyndon a tiny herb tipped with pale‑blue flowers, and, gently, slipped it into his own bosom. You are an herbalist?" " I am. " " I hear it is a study of great interest. To those who understand it, doubtless. “But,” said Zicci, gazing up with a faint, icy smile, “why do you linger on your quest to speak with me about matters you neither understand nor wish to learn?” I sense your heart, young Englishman: your curiosity is stirred; you yearn to learn of me, and not this modest herb. Move on; your longing can never be fulfilled. "You lack the politeness of your fellow countrymen," said Glyndon, his composure somewhat disturbed. If I wished to get to know you, why would you reject my advances? "I refuse every man's advances," answered Zicci. I must know them if they wish; yet in return they can never comprehend me. If you inquire about my acquaintance, it will be yours; however, I urge you to keep your distance from me. Why, then, are you considered so dangerous? Some have regarded me thus; if I attempted to foretell your destiny by the futile calculations of an astrologer, I would—using their despicable jargon—speak of my planet lying ominously in your house of life. Do not cross me, if you can help it. Consider this my first and last warning. You despise astrologers, yet you speak with jargon as puzzling as theirs. I neither gamble nor quarrel, so why should I fear you? As you wish; I have taken care of it. Let me be candid: our talk last evening both intrigued and entertained me. I know that; minds like yours are drawn to mystery. Those words stirred Glyndon, yet the tone in which they were spoken was free of contempt. I understand that you don’t consider me worthy of your friendship. Good day. " Zicci answered the greeting with a cold retort, and once the Englishman rode away, he went back to his work as a botanist. The same night Glyndon went, as usual, to the theatre.
| 0.3
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Man-woman relationships -- Fiction
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Olivieri, David
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Bulwer, Edward Lytton
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166
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7608
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Olivieri, David_[Summer]_1500_32_0.3
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Bulwer, Edward Lytton_[Zicci: A Tale — Complete]_1500_2_0.8
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Is he a special friend of yours?" "We have been together for a dozen voyages," I explained, "and so far we have managed to get along without squabbling. " "A dozen voyages!" she repeated, opening her eyes. "You must be getting a little tired of the Neptune, aren't you?" "She has lost some of her first charm," I admitted frankly. "I have been thinking of applying for a separation for some time. " She looked up at me with a friendly interest that I found very refreshing. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "I don't know exactly," I replied. "It depends to a certain extent upon Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton. " There was a short pause. "They sound like two very important people," she said, wrinkling her forehead, "but I am afraid I have never heard of either of them. " "Neither had I until I got back yesterday," I returned. "Then I found a cable from them in my cabin telling me that my uncle was dead. " She gave a little exclamation of sympathy. "Oh, I am so sorry," she began. "I'm afraid——" "It's quite all right," I interrupted cheerfully. "I never saw him in my life, and I believe he was several kinds of a blackguard. The only reason they wired to me was because I happen to be the next of kin, and as he died without making a will I suppose I come into his goods and chattels—if there are any to come into. " "But don't you know? Didn't they give you any details? " I shook my head. "Nothing at all. I may be a millionaire, or he may have left me a parrot and an old suit of clothes. I should think the latter was much the more likely of the two, but Ross won't have it at any price. He says that he has got a kind of second sight about money matters, and that he's always felt I was born to be one of the idle rich. " She laughed easily. "I do hope he's right. Aren't you tremendously excited about it?" "I am trying not to be," I said. "You see, the more one expects the greater the disappointment. " "Who was your uncle?" she asked, after a moment's silence. "Another namesake of the poet?" "He wasn't a Dryden at all," I explained. "He was my mother's brother, and his name was Richard Jannaway. " I had given my answer quite casually, but its effect was so startling that for a moment I stood there petrified with astonishment. Every vestige of colour had fled from my companion's face, and she was staring at me with an expression of incredulous horror. "Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it? What's the matter?" By a tremendous effort of will she managed to pull herself together. "It's nothing," she answered, with amazing coolness. "I—I once knew somebody of that name, but it couldn't possibly have been the same person. " "I don't know," I said slowly; "there can't be very many Richard Jannaways in the world." Then I paused. "My uncle spent most of his life in South America," I added deliberately. I saw her hand tighten on the railing that she was holding until the knuckles stood out white and distinct under the skin. "South America?" she repeated in a low whisper. The same panic-stricken look had come back into her face, as though the two words confirmed all the strange dread which the first mention of my uncle's name had suddenly aroused. I came a step nearer to her. "For God's sake tell me what's the matter," I said again. "If there's anything in the world——" I was interrupted by the noise of the breakfast gong, which came booming up from below in a loud, insistent clamour. With another obvious effort my companion regained her self-control, and, letting go of the railing stood up in front of me, white and breathless. "Mr. Dryden," she said, "please don't ask me any questions. There is something I can't explain to you now—something I can never explain. I can only assure you that what you have told me makes no real difference between us. It was always quite impossible that we could ever be friends. " "Nothing is impossible unless one admits it," I returned doggedly. She made a little despairing gesture with her hands. "You don't understand," she said; "and, please God, you never will. " For one moment we remained facing each other in a strained, unnatural silence; then, without another word, she turned away towards the companion, and disappeared down the steps into the saloon. To say that I was utterly flabbergasted would be nothing but the literal truth. It had all happened so unexpectedly, and with such astounding abruptness, that for a second or so I felt like a man who had inadvertently dropped a lighted match into a large can of petrol. Indeed, no actual explosion could have reduced me to such a complete state of amazed bewilderment as that in which I stood staring at the spot where she had vanished. Then, quite suddenly, my senses seemed to come back to me. I caught sight of several passengers advancing towards the companion, and, taking out my case, I lighted myself a cigarette, and strolled very slowly in the direction of the stern. At this hour the stretch of deck behind the donkey engine house was absolutely deserted. A better place for a little quiet meditation could scarcely have been found, and, leaning over the railing, I set about the process with as much steadiness as my disturbed faculties would permit. One thing seemed absolutely certain. Whatever Miss de Roda's original views may have been as to the wisdom of continuing her friendship with me, it was her sudden discovery about my uncle which had been wholly responsible for the extraordinary change in her manner. If I had told her that I was the nephew of Judas Iscariot the result could hardly have been more striking. The mere mention of Richard Jannaway's name had been sufficient to fill her with such amazement and horror that she had been quite incapable of making any attempt at hiding her feelings. This fact of itself would have been sufficiently remarkable, but to me its significance was doubly increased by the way she had behaved the previous day during our little discussion with the boatmen. Any girl who could have shown such perfect coolness under the circumstances must be gifted with a spirit and nerve that were not easily shaken. I was, therefore, convinced that it must have taken some very real and urgent sense of danger to upset so completely her usual self-control. Having arrived at this point, I found myself utterly at sea. Beyond the fact that the mystery was in some way or other connected with my uncle I had practically nothing to go upon. If the family recollections of that distinguished gentleman could be trusted, he had probably thrown himself heartily into all kinds of mischief during the course of his South American career, and since the de Rodas came from that part of the world it was quite possible that the name of Richard Jannaway might be connected with some black, unwholesome memory which overshadowed both their lives. Señor de Roda was just the sort of man who suggested a mysterious past. His obvious avoidance of any sort of society, and the brooding depression which always haunted his sallow face, were exactly in keeping with the idea. The more I thought it over the more probable it seemed that at some period in his life he had been mixed up with my disreputable relation, and I began to feel an acute desire for a little genuine information about the tatter's history. The most likely people to be able to gratify this curiosity appeared to be Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton. However secretive their late client may have been, they would at least know more about him than I did, and such facts as they possessed might well be the starting-point for further discoveries. There was no other chance of enlightenment that I could see except by renewing my interrupted conversation with Miss de Roda. This plan, difficult as it might be to put into practice, appealed to me on two grounds. In the first place, I was ready to jump at any suggestion which would bring me into further contact with her, and secondly, I felt perfectly certain that if she chose she could give me a good deal more interesting information than I was likely to get in Bedford Row.
|
" "You must remember that you are speaking of Isabel's native land," protested Tony reprovingly. "Oh, he can say what he likes about Livadia," said Isabel. "It's all true. " "And anyhow," went on Guy, "if we mean to get out of this business safely and successfully we must look at things exactly as they are and not as they ought to be. As far as I can see the whole affair is more like a cheap melodrama than anything else, but that doesn't mean there isn't a very real danger for people who choose to mix themselves up in it." He paused. "What was your final understanding with these—these people?" "Oh, we parted the best of friends," said Tony cheerfully. "At least Congosta and I did. The Colonel was a little bit stuffy at not being allowed to see Isabel, but I put that down to his military training. A good soldier never likes to be baulked in his object. " "Yes, yes; but what are they going to do?" persisted Guy. "You must have come to some sort of an arrangement. " "We came to a very good arrangement," said Tony. "I am to continue looking after Isabel and keeping her away from the fascinations of Peter, while they go on with the job of getting the throne ready for her. The Colonel is on his way back to Livadia already. " "And what about the other man—Congosta?" "Congosta is staying on in England for the present. I have got his address at Richmond. He says it's necessary that someone should be here in order to keep an eye on Peter and Da Freitas. I don't suppose he altogether trusts me either. " "I daresay he doesn't," observed Guy drily. "He probably agreed to the arrangement because he hadn't any immediate choice in the matter. I shouldn't imagine that we could depend on him in the least. " "I don't know," said Tony. "He seems to have a great faith in the virtue and nobility of the English aristocracy. I think he must be a reader of Charles Garvice. " "Have you made any plans yourself?" asked Guy. Tony took a thoughtful pull at his cigar. "Well, I have got one or two ideas that I was talking over with Isabel last night. In the first place I think I shall tell Aunt Fanny all about it. It's just the sort of thing that would appeal to her thoroughly; and then she would be an excellent chaperone if we happened to want one. " Guy pondered over the suggestion for a moment. "I think you are right," he admitted half reluctantly. "We certainly ought to have someone for—for Isabel's sake," (it was the first time he had dropped the more formal Miss Francis) "and I suppose Aunt Fanny is the only possible person. All the same the fewer people who know anything about it the better. " "I don't propose to tell any one else," said Tony, "except Molly. Oh, it's all right," he added, as Guy directed an embarrassed glance towards their companion; "I told Isabel all about Molly last night. She has survived the shock splendidly. " "I am not a child, Cousin Guy," said Isabel with dignity. "But is it necessary to bring this—this young woman in?" objected Guy. "Of course it is," said Tony, "and I wish you wouldn't refer to her in that dreadful way. It sounds as if she wore black cotton gloves. Molly's our Chief Intelligence Department. It's only through her that we can get any idea of what's going on at Richmond, and apart from that she is the best friend we could possibly have. She regards Peter as her private property—a poor thing, but her own—and she doesn't mean to lose him without a good scrap. She's got grit and nerve, Molly has; otherwise she wouldn't be playing lead at the Gaiety. " "Very well," said Guy resignedly. "I suppose that if one goes in for this sort of thing one must get help where one can. When do you propose to see her?" "Now," said Tony; "if she's out of bed. I am going to motor down there right away." He got up from his chair. "You will be careful while I am away, won't you, Isabel?" he added. "Bugg is on duty all right, but I think it would be safer for you to stop in the garden unless you want to go back to the house. One doesn't know what Da Freitas may be up to. " "Isabel will be quite safe," said Guy with some spirit. "I will remain with her myself if she will allow me to. " "That will be very nice," said Isabel graciously. Tony tossed away the stump of his cigar. "I believe that Guy will end by being the most reckless adventurer of the lot of us," he said gravely. "It's generally the way when people take up a fresh hobby late in life. " Isabel gave one of her little rippling laughs, and before Guy could think of an adequate retort, Tony had sauntered off up the path in the direction of the garage. Amongst the hobbies of Miss Molly Monk that of early rising—as Tony knew—occupied a comparatively modest place, and he was accordingly not surprised on reaching her flat to learn from Claudine, the French maid, that her mistress was still in bed. "Is she awake?" he inquired. "_Mais oui, M'sieur_," replied Claudine. "She 'ave 'er morning chocolate. I just take it in to 'er." "Well, will you go and give her my love," said Tony, "and tell her I should like to see her as soon as it could be happily managed. " Claudine conducted Tony to the little drawing-room, and then tripped demurely away down the passage to deliver her message. She was not absent for long, as thirty seconds could hardly have elapsed before she re-entered the apartment. "If M'sieur will follow me," she announced. "Madem'selle will receive him. " She led the way to Molly's bedroom, and pushing open the door which was already ajar, ushered Tony into a charming atmosphere of cream walls, apple green hangings, and a huge brass bedstead. In the bedstead was Molly. She was sitting up against a little mountain of white pillows, with a Japanese kimona thrown lightly round her gossamer nightdress, and her red hair streaming loose over her shoulders. She was sipping chocolate, and looked very cool and attractive. "Hello, Tony," she said. "I hope you don't mind being received in this shameless fashion. It's your own fault you know for coming so early. " She extended a slim white hand and wrist, and Tony having implanted a kiss on the latter, seated himself comfortably on the end of the bed. "I am not seriously annoyed, Molly," he replied. "I find that my naturally Calvinistic principles are becoming broader as I get older." He looked at her with an approving glance. "Besides," he went on, "at one time it was all the fashion to receive distinguished visitors in bed. Madame du Barry—a very highly connected French lady—made a hobby of it. " "Did she—the saucy puss!" said Molly. She pushed across a tortoise shell cigarette case that was lying on the silk coverlet in front of her. "You can light up if you like," she added. "I am going to have one myself in a minute. " Tony took advantage of her permission, and leaning back against the brass rail blew out a little spiral of grey smoke. "I came at this indelicate hour," he observed, "because I promised I would look round directly I had anything to tell you. " Molly sat up in bed. "Oh," she exclaimed eagerly, "have you heard from that friend of yours—the one in Portriga?" Tony shook his head. "Not yet; there hasn't been time." He paused. "I don't know that it's altogether necessary to go to Portriga for news though. One seems to be able to pick up a certain amount of Livadian gossip in London. " Molly put down her cup of chocolate on the tray beside her. "Tony," she said, "what have you heard?" "It's a long and poignant story," said Tony. "Are you in any hurry to get up?" "Do I look like it?" She reached across the bed for the cigarette case. "Wait a moment till I've got a light; then I shan't interrupt you. " She struck a match, and drawing in a mouthful of smoke, leaned back against the pillows. "That's better," she observed contentedly. "Now fire ahead. " The art of telling a long story well is a regrettably rare one, especially amongst people who are chiefly addicted to the habit.
| 1
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Adventure stories
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Bridges, Victor
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Bridges, Victor
|
66969
|
67078
|
Bridges, Victor_[Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex Coast]_1500_6
|
Bridges, Victor_[The Lady from Long Acre]_1500_37
|
She is a true descendant of Diana; and, like her mythic ancestress,— Sævis inimica Virgo Belluis...." "I'm grieved, indeed!" replied Cecil; "but treat me as a cockney; shower contempt upon me for the confession; but, the truth is, I never found much pleasure in any sport, except hunting; and the little pleasure I used to find in shooting was destroyed five years ago. " "How was that?" "The anecdote is almost childish, but I am not such a child as to be ashamed of relating it. I was one day rambling over the wood at Rushfield Park, with my rifle in my hand tired of shooting at a mark. There started a hare at a tempting distance from me, I fired. A slight appearance of ruffled fur alone told me that he was hit. He ran leisurely away, and described a circle round me, till approaching within a few paces he lay meekly down, and died. I know not wherefore, but the death of this hare was indescribably touching to me. It was not the mere death: I had killed hundreds before, and often had to despatch by a blow those only wounded. But this one had died so meekly, without a cry, without a struggle, and had come to die so piteously at the feet of him who had shot it, that I took a sudden disgust to the sport, and have never fired a gun since at either hare or partridge. " There was a slight pause. The emotion of the speaker communicated itself to the audience, and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, with tears in her eyes, declared, that for her part she so well understood what his feelings must have been, that she must have hated him (hated was said with the prettiest accent in the world), if he had not relinquished shooting on the spot. Violet would have said the same, but her mother having volunteered the observation, closed her mouth. She really felt what her mother only spoke; but the intuitive knowledge of her mother's insincerity—the thorough appreciation of the tear which so sentimentally sparkled on that mother's eyelid—made her dread lest any expression of her own sentiments should be confounded with such affectation, and she was silent. Cecil was hurt at her silence. The more so as she did not even look at him, but kept her eyes fixed upon her plate. Meredith Vyner, who had been vainly beating his brains for a pat quotation, now gave up the attempt and said,— "But then, my dear, you have so much sensibility! Why, I vow if the story hasn't brought tears into her eyes— Humor et in genas Furtim labitur. Certainly, there never was a more tender-hearted creature—nor one shrinking so much from the infliction of even the smallest pain. " Vyner, as he finished his sentence, turned aside his head to fill his nose with a pinch of snuff adequate to the occasion—as if it was only in some vociferous demonstration of the kind that he could supply eloquence capable of properly setting forth his wife's sensibility. At the mention of her tender-heartedness, both Marmaduke and Violet, involuntarily looked at her, and as they withdrew their eyes, their gaze met. No words can translate the language which passed in that gaze: it was but a second in duration, and yet in that second each soul was laid bare to the eyes of each. The ironical smile which had stolen over their eyes changed, like the glancing hues on a dove's neck, from irony to surprise, from surprise to mutual assent, from assent to superb contempt. Marmaduke and Violet had never met before, yet in that one glance each said to the other, "So, you know this woman! You appreciate her sincerity! You know what a cruel hypocrite she is! " Mrs. Wyner did not observe that look. She had felt Marmaduke's eyes were upon her, and affecting not to know it, threw an extra expression of sensibility into her face. When Cecil fairly caught a sight of Violet's face, he saw on it the last faint traces of that contempt which she had expressed for her mother, but which he attributed to her unfeminine delight in field-sports, and her contempt for his sensibility. He was glad when luncheon was concluded, and the party rose to ramble about the grounds. As they were walking through the garden, he managed to bring up the subject, and frankly asked her if she did not feel something like disdain at his chicken-heartedness. "Disdain!" she exclaimed, "how could you imagine it? Knowing you to be so little effeminate that it could not spring but from a kind and affectionate nature, I assure you I look upon it as the very best feather you have stuck in your cap—at least in my presence. I have only contempt for the affectation of sensibility. " "It was what your father said——" "My poor father understands me about as little as he understands mama. Less he could not. Fond as I am of hunting and everything like exercise in the open air, I have seen too much of the mere Nimrods not to value them at their just ratio. Good in the field: detestable everywhere else. " "I'm delighted to hear you say it. " "I must confess to prizing manliness so high, that I prefer even brutality to cowardice. There is nothing to me so contemptible in a man or woman as moral weakness, and therefore I prefer even the outrages of strength to the questionable virtues of a weak, yielding, coddling mind. " "What do you mean by the questionable virtues of such a mind?" he asked. "They are questionable, because not stable: the ground from which they spring being treacherous. A man who is weak will yield to good arguments; but he will also yield to bad arguments; and he will, moreover, yield against his conviction. A man who is timid will be cruel out of his very timidity, for there is nothing so cruel as cowardice. " By this time they had left the garden, and joined the others, who had disposed themselves in groups, which permitted their _tête-à-tête_ to continue. Meredith Vyner, Mrs. St. John, and the clergyman's wife were in advance. Mrs. Langley Turner and young Lufton followed, conning over London acquaintance and London gossip. Marmaduke, Sir Harry, and Mrs. Vyner were very lively, talking on an infinite variety of topics—Mrs. Vyner making herself excessively engaging to Marmaduke, whom she had not seen since that Sunday night when his last words had been so contemptuous, his look so strange and voluptuous. She did not doubt that the great motive of his visit at the Grange was to put his threat of vengeance in execution; and determined either to soften him, or to learn his plans, the better to combat them. George Maxwell walked behind them, scowling. Julius remained in doors; so Violet and Cecil had only to lag a little behind, to enjoy a perfect _tête-à-tête_. Shot walked gravely at their heels. The ramble about the grounds lasted all the afternoon. There only occurred one incident worth relating, as bearing upon the fortunes of two of the actors. Cecil and Violet, in stopping to pick many flowers, had been left so far behind the others, that they determined to take a shorter cut to the house through a meadow lying alongside of the shrubbery. They had not gone many steps across the meadow before a bull seemed to resent their intrusion. He began tearing up the ground, and tossing about his head in anger. "I don't like the look of that animal," said Cecil. "Let us return. " She only laughed, and said:— "Return! No, no. He won't interfere with us. Besides, when you live in the country you must take your choice, either never to enter a field where there are cattle, or never to turn aside from your path, should the field be full of bulls. I made my choice long ago. " This was said with a sort of mock heroic air, which quite set Cecil's misgivings aside. He thought she must certainly be perfectly aware the bull was harmless, or she would not have spoken in that tone; and above all, would not have so completely disregarded what seemed to him rather formidable demonstrations on the part of the animal. They continued, therefore, to walk leisurely along the meadow, the bull bellowing at them, and following at a little distance. He was evidently lashing himself into the stupid rage peculiar to his kind, and Shot showed considerable alarm. "For God's sake, Miss Vyner! let us away from this," said Cecil, agitated. "He doesn't like Shot's appearance here," she calmly replied, as the dog slunk through the iron hurdles which fenced off the shrubbery.
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Ordinarily she would have stolen up behind him and clung round his neck with her feet off the ground; but now she evidently wanted him to get the full effect of her changed appearance, for she stood ten feet off and spoke to him. Oddly enough, she was wearing the very clothes which Pearl had described—the pink linen, the hat with the pink rose, the gray silk stockings and gray suède pumps. Nothing, Anthony thought, could have been more accurate. The child was very beautiful, just as he had hoped—hardly dared to hope—to see her. She gave him just that second to take her all in, and then sprang at his neck. "Oh, don't you think I look nice?" she said passionately. "It's all Miss Exeter—your priceless pearl—and she is priceless. Don't you think I look nice? I like her better almost than anyone I ever knew, because she's so straight. Don't you think I look nice?" "Indeed I do," said her uncle. He managed to free his neck from the yoke of Antonia's arms and held her off and turned her round. "Yes," he said, "you look exactly as I like to see you. " Antonia smiled and then sighed. "I feel every stitch I have on," she said, "particularly the shoes and stockings." She raised first one leg and then the other and shook it, with a gesture not at all graceful. "I've never worn them except in winter before. But still, it does make a difference in one's popularity—clothes—particularly with boys. Boys are funny, Uncle Anthony. " Nothing interested Anthony more than to discuss the problems of life with his niece, but at the moment his mind was not sufficiently disengaged. He was sorry to interrupt her, but he was obliged to go and have a few words with her governess. "That's all right," said Antonia. "I'll go too." And she slipped her arm through his and, leaning her head against the point of his shoulder prepared to descend the steps. But Anthony explained to her that he wished to talk to Miss Exeter by himself. Antonia was disappointed. She had looked forward to being present when her uncle and the governess met again, but she adjusted herself as usual. "There's Mr. Albertson," she said. "I'll get him to come and sit with me while I have supper, and tell me stories of crime. He says there aren't any people like Sherlock Holmes, and that stories like that make it hard for real detectives. I suppose that's true, and yet it's horrid to face facts sometimes, isn't it, Uncle Anthony? It makes real life seem pretty dull sometimes. " "Real life is not dull, Antonia," said her uncle, "take it from me. " He watched her safely into a conversation with Mr. Albertson, and then, with his hands in his pockets, he sauntered down the steps, across the sand toward that rose-colored parasol. "Good afternoon, Miss Exeter," he said pleasantly. It had been kept a profound secret that Anthony was on his way home. The detectives had pointed out to Mrs. Conway that this was important—that if the woman knew she was about to be unmasked she might be goaded into sudden action—perhaps even into destroying the pearls. Hearing a strange voice calling her by name, Pearl came out of a trance into which the sunset and the sea had thrown her; glancing up from under her parasol, she saw at once that the speaker was Anthony Wood, and that he was exactly as she had imagined him. Seeing this, her heart gave a peculiar leap, and she beamed at him, more freely and wonderfully than she had ever beamed at anyone in the world. The look affected him—it would have affected any man; not just her beauty, for he had seen a good deal of beauty in his day, but this warm, generous honesty combined with beauty was something he had never seen. For a second or two they just looked at each other, Pearl beaming and beaming, and Wood looking at her, his face like a dark mask, but his turquoise eyes piercing her heart. She spoke first. She said in her queer deep voice, "Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr. Wood. " "Are you?" he said. Of all the sentences with which she might have greeted him—sentences of excuse, of explanation, of appeal—he had never thought of her saying this, and saying it with all the manner of joy and relief. "Indeed I am," she went on, still on that same note. "Have you seen Antonia?" "Yes, I have. " "And isn't she——" "We'll leave that for a moment," he said, for her effrontery began to annoy him, and his tone was curt. But instead of being alarmed or apologetic, she gave a little chuckle. "Oh, yes, I know," she said; "of course you want an explanation; only I wanted to be sure you'd seen my great achievement first, for it is an achievement, isn't it?" His eyebrows went up. "Do you really expect to be praised for anything you may have done," he said, "before you offer some explanation as to why you are here masquerading as Miss Exeter?" Pearl's face fell. He was really quite cross. It seemed hard to her that the meaningless sort of beam with which she accompanied a casual good morning had been enough to reduce the third vice president to weeping on his desk, while a particularly concentrated beam—a beam designed to say in a ladylike, yet unmistakable manner that the one man of all men was now standing before her—seemed to have no effect whatsoever on said man. She tried it nevertheless. Anthony, seeing it, suddenly became angry. Did this woman, he thought, who was perhaps a thief and was certainly an impostor, really suppose she was going to charm him, Anthony Wood, by her mere beauty—he who was well known to be indifferent to women? She would learn—— But what she would learn was not formulated, for she now surprised him by jumping to her feet and running like a gazelle toward the sea, crying out something to him which he did not catch. He started, however, in full pursuit—his first thought being that she intended to drown herself; the second that she meant to fling the pearls into the sea—the well-known trick of destroying the evidence in a tight place. She ran on. The sea was up to her knees—up to her waist, fully dressed as she was; she was now swimming. They had the sea entirely to themselves. Even the detectives, trusting to Mr. Wood, had withdrawn for a bite to eat; and at five o'clock all those fortunate people who come to the seaside for the summer are engaged in golfing or playing bridge, and seem to ignore the existence of the Atlantic Ocean. Anthony had hesitated at the brink of the sea long enough to take off first his shoes, second his watch and third the light coat which he had worn driving the car, so that he was some little distance behind her. Swimming hard and for the most part under water, he did not see for some time the object which had attracted Pearl's attention. Neither suicide nor the pearls were the object of her plunge, but a small white dog which appeared to be drowning. Some children up the beach had been throwing sticks for it, and now at the end of a long afternoon it had got caught in some current and was obviously in trouble, every third or fourth wave washing over its little pointed nose. Pearl, never doubting that Wood was actuated by the same motives as herself, panted out, "Can we get there in time?" He came alongside her now. "You're not going to drown too!" he said. She shook her wet head. Together they towed the exhausted little creature back. As soon as she could walk Pearl picked it up in her arms and strode ashore. "Don't you think it was a crime for those children to go away and leave him like that?" Her gray eyes, instead of beaming, glowed angrily. "Are you so against crime?" said Anthony, trying to smooth the water out of his hair. She did not even take the trouble to answer but became absorbed in tending the dog. It was a white dog, at least its hair was white; but now, soaked and plastered to its body, the general effect was of a cloudy pink with gray spots. It was the offspring probably of a spotted carriage dog and a poodle. Between it and Pearl a perfect understanding seemed to have been at once established.
| 0
|
Young women -- Fiction
|
Lawrence, Slingsby
|
Duer, Alice
|
72680
|
64192
|
Lawrence, Slingsby_[Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume 1 (of 3)]_1500_20
|
Duer, Alice_[The Priceless Pearl]_1500_22
|
End of preview. Expand
in Data Studio
Style Judge Dataset
A pairwise dataset for learning a continuous style-similarity function while controlling for topic, introduced in Capturing Classic Authorial Style in Long-Form Story Generation with GRPO Fine-Tuning (arXiv:2512.05747).
Dataset Summary
- Total rows: 156k (default subset)
- Splits: train 130k, validation 13k, test 13k
- Format: Arrow
Columns
sentence1(string): original chunk textsentence2(string): refilled chunk textscore(float): calibrated similarity score in [0, 1]subject(string): one of 4 subject categoriesauthor1,author2(string): author identifiers for each sidebook1,book2(string): book identifiers for each sideid1,id2(string): example ids
Source Data (Books)
General dataset size: 978 books (strict pairs only)
Subject breakdown:
| Subject | Books | Authors |
|---|---|---|
| Adventure stories | 402 | 201 |
| Historical fiction | 162 | 81 |
| Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | 296 | 148 |
| Young women -- Fiction | 118 | 59 |
Loading
from datasets import load_dataset
ds = load_dataset("VibrantVista/style-judge-dataset")
train = ds["train"]
valid = ds["validation"]
test = ds["test"]
Citation
@misc{liu2025capturingclassicauthorialstyle,
title={Capturing Classic Authorial Style in Long-Form Story Generation with GRPO Fine-Tuning},
author={Jinlong Liu and Mohammed Bahja and Venelin Kovatchev and Mark Lee},
year={2025},
eprint={2512.05747},
archivePrefix={arXiv},
primaryClass={cs.CL},
url={https://arxiv.org/abs/2512.05747},
}
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Size of downloaded dataset files:
2.48 GB
Size of the auto-converted Parquet files:
1.6 GB
Number of rows:
156,000
Models trained or fine-tuned on VibrantVista/style-judge-dataset