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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. | 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 | Historical fiction | Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge) | Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge) | 17460 | 840 | Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)_[Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor]_1500_19 | Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)_[Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor]_1500_65 |
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. | 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 | Adventure stories | Munroe, Kirk | Strang, Herbert | 59240 | 41489 | Munroe, Kirk_[Idonia: A Romance of Old London]_1500_22_0.4 | Strang, Herbert_[One of Clive's Heroes: A Story of the Fight for India]_1500_69_0.9 |
" "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. | "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. | 0 | Adventure stories | Bridges, Victor | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese) | 66969 | 6655 | Bridges, Victor_[Greensea Island: A Mystery of the Essex Coast]_1500_39 | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)_[Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures]_1500_2 |
" 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. | "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! | 0 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | France, Anatole | Bulwer, Edward Lytton | 3921 | 7607 | France, Anatole_[The Red Lily — Volume 03]_1500_3 | Bulwer, Edward Lytton_[Zicci: A Tale — Volume 02]_1500_10 |
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. | 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. | 0.1 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Williams, Ben Ames | Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine) | 36881 | 54404 | Williams, Ben Ames_[Πλουτάρχου Βίοι Παράλληλοι - Τόμος 1 Θησεύς - Ρωμύλος - Λυκούργος - Νουμάς]_1500_42_0.1 | Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)_[Mehalah: A Story of the Salt Marshes]_1500_45_0.2 |
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. | 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. | 0 | Adventure stories | Masefield, John | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese) | 69340 | 75164 | Masefield, John_[Sard Harker: A novel]_1500_63 | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)_[Roy Blakeley's roundabout hike]_1500_7 |
" 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. | 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 | Burney, Fanny_[Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World]_1500_16_0.7 |
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. | 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 | Historical fiction | Crowfield, Christopher | Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen) | 43076 | 72918 | Crowfield, Christopher_[Agnes of Sorrento]_1500_53_0.5 | Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen)_[Algemeene Geschiedenis in Verhalen: Oudheid]_1500_20_0.9 |
" 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. | 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 | Historical fiction | Crane, Stephen | Crane, Stephen | 463 | 73 | Crane, Stephen_[The Winning of the West, Volume 3 The Founding of the Trans-Alleghany Commonwealths, 1784-1790]_1500_10 | Crane, Stephen_[The Red Badge of Courage: An Episode of the American Civil War]_1500_9 |
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. | 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 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Olivieri, David | Bulwer, Edward Lytton | 166 | 7608 | Olivieri, David_[Summer]_1500_32_0.3 | Bulwer, Edward Lytton_[Zicci: A Tale — Complete]_1500_2_0.8 |
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 | Adventure stories | Bridges, Victor | 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. | 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 |
"Yes, yes," she murmured, with clasped hands and agitated fervour; "convince me it were error, and I should be thankful—oh, how thankful to cherish the idea; but vain, vain will be the endeavour to reason me into the persuasion that anything short of the most generous misconception could have justified any such proceeding with regard to Eustace Trevor, as the cruel course which was pursued against him; and oh, Olivia, I wonder at you—a woman—advocating such a cause. " She pressed her hand wearily across her brow, as if weighed by the dark, bewildering theme that had seized her imagination. Mrs. de Burgh lay back upon her sofa, and was silent. She felt herself sinking into waters far deeper than she could manage. She had been urged to employ every ounce of her rhetorical skill to persuade a serious yet gentle‑hearted girl to marry a man whose character she had long found unsettling. She was unwilling to sift through the matter and discern its wrongs and rights—an exercise she, like the rest of the world, had long taken for granted—and Mary's rebuke stung her spirit, diverting the current of her thoughts. Eugene would find it highly disagreeable if his brother ever came forward claiming the rights to which he had been unjustly dispossessed under false pretences. Eugene Trevor cast an uneasy glance toward Mary, trying to gauge how she would receive his intrusion; she subtly shifted her shoulders, meeting his anxious inquiry with a look that seemed to say, “I’ve done my best—you must decide for yourself,” and Mrs. de Burgh turned back to her work, applying herself with assiduous care. Eugene Trevor muttered a half‑formed remark about his horse not being ready and settled a few steps behind Mary’s chair, where, more from intuition than sight, she seemed to sense the arrival of her lover; she had not raised her down‑cast eyes, which were fixed melancholy on the fire. Now only a barely perceptible shudder and an even more rigid stillness seemed to signal his approach. Mary is very tired," observed Mrs. de Burgh, glancing up from her work. Eugene bent gently forward, and looked with earnest solicitude into Mary's face. He kept silent, yet no words could have conveyed the intense, focused fervor that pulsed in those dark, passionate eyes. It was impossible not to sense their lingering influence, even though the once‑captivating spark that had filled her soul had either dissipated or survived only as the cold, repellent sting of a rattlesnake’s bite. She turned her head away with pain, while the hand Eugene had gently taken began to wrench itself free from his grasp. Mrs. de Burgh, judging from everything she saw, probably felt it was her duty to step in again at this pivotal crisis. In her dressing‑room she kept a modest piano‑forté to kill the hours of confinement, and without disturbing anyone she skillfully wheeled her light sofa toward it. She positioned herself before the instrument and, with a playful smile, said, “Mary, my dear, I’ll play some of your favourite songs to lift your spirits.” Without waiting for any further encouragement, she struck the chords and began singing—whether by accident or by intent—selecting the plaintive ballads she had first introduced to Mary at her last visit to Silverton more than four years earlier. That night, when her gracious hostess—who always relished the enchantment of her own gentle song—had significantly helped weave the fatal spell, its broken charm now became the very thing she was determined to restore. To best serve Eugene’s interests, she could only try that enchanting method once more. Could Mary hear, and would her delicate soul remain untouched by the memories and associations that would inevitably stir? Could she sit beside Eugene and not be drawn back into a softened reverie of that earlier moment, when she might have employed the poet’s impassioned language—when, full of blissful sighs, they sat and gazed into each other’s eyes, silent and happy, as if nothing else mattered on this side of heaven? Alas! The spell was irreparably broken, so even the sweetest, most subtle of all human influences cannot restore it. Mary’s soul was indeed stirred, but the feelings that rose were far from those she had imagined; chiefly her heart swelled with wounded, more than indignant emotions toward the false friend who had betrayed her. The soft music, rather than soothing her rattled nerves, seemed to irritate them, its throbbing pathos echoing mockingly in her ears. Your eyes hold the sunshine of my life, and when you leave, darkness envelops me. Such words could have meant nothing to her but mockery, and now the image of a wicked, heinous fault lived alone in her eye. Still she sat pale, spiritless and subdued, as though a lingering spell bound her; lacking the energy to break free, she yielded herself to its sway. From his silent looks it seemed that Eugene, perhaps encouraged by her passive conduct, sat again to plead in low, pleading tones his anxious request and his father's earnest wishes on the subject—a manifestation of his own broken‑hearted despair. Then, it seemed her passive trance had broken; soon after, when Mrs. de Burgh heard Eugene’s voice and sensed that the matter was turning more serious, she began to play the chords with carefully measured force, only to be startled by Mary’s low, tremulous voice close behind her, announcing her intention to retire to bed immediately. The sweet sounds were abruptly silenced, and as the performer looked up she said with a forced cheerfulness—though she was actually disappointed at this ominous sign of her hopes being dashed—“Yes, dear Mary, certainly you shall go directly.” I forgot that you had had so fatiguing a journey. " Then glanced uneasily round to see how it went with the other party concerned. Eugene Trevor approached the window, impulsively pulling aside the curtain, flinging the shutters open, and peered out, as if trying to ascertain the scene beyond. "By Jove, dark as pitch," he murmured, his voice low and moodily hushed; then turning back, he laughed recklessly and declared, "Olivia, keep me here tonight—if you even care about my neck." Mrs. de Burgh glanced towards the window. " Is it so very dark?" she asked, evasively. " Dark—no star to be seen—yet—what, in the name of fortune, is that strange sudden light yonder? From her seat, Mrs. de Burgh glared once more toward the window, yet all she could see was a thick, impenetrable darkness. Mary, standing with the candle cradled in her trembling hand, turned her eyes mechanically toward the indicated direction. They were instantly drawn to a crimson flare that, made all the more conspicuous against the surrounding darkness, lit up the distant sky across the twelve miles of flat country separating Silverton from the wooded rise—a rise that had long captivated her gaze and marked the nearby site of Montrevor. She realized that a fleeting meteor had caused the transient effect; as she watched, it vanished from view, leaving only Eugene Trevor’s dark eye flaring on her in a lurid glow that merged in her confused mind with the sudden gleam in the night sky. Sullenly fierce, a mixture dire, Like thunder clouds, half gloom, half fire. " She turned away, lighting her candle with unsteady hand. " Good night, Olivia," she said gravely. Mrs. de Burgh held out her hand. | So her dear father and the fact that she was born in poverty made her an outcast? If that were the case, she would remain so. The breeze that slipped through the barely‑open window whispered, “Teach her to be a lady.” Cecilia felt the breath and rested her chin against the cool window. Mrs De Pui, however, did not accept her story. She hadn’t believed her; “One more try, Cecilia, although you are a great trial both to me and my pupils,” echoed in her mind, in Mrs. De Pui’s cold tones. Cecilia sat up straighter on the bed. "My heart is right," she said aloud. I feel it surpasses Annette's. Don't that count for nothing? Isn't being kind what it means to be a lady? She gazed resentfully across the room. The white furniture glittered coldly. From between the fluttering scrim curtains, she glimpsed a park that looked unnaturally well arranged. Even the trees seemed to assert their superiority with smug confidence. “God was in that flat,” she said again aloud. A sentence sprang to her mind. A sentence that's become stale, lingering on the top shelf for years. “I guess God is what I feel for—love,” she said, half‑musingly. Even for Johnny—whether he is bad—as well as for Father McGowan, dear, and Norah. Just that." ... She looked out the window and saw the trees, painstakingly arranged, again. "Those trees aren’t so bad," she said; "At least they’re not bad, when I remember how much they love me at home." Her expression shifted when she recalled some of Mrs. De Pui’s sharpened truths. Her father,—his difference. She decided that it should always be hers, too. The first sting of hatred struck her. God, make me a lady quickly! she implored. Someone tapped on the door. Cecilia opened it. Annie was there, beaming. She held a long box with stems poking out of one end. Fer you, dearie," said Annie. Cecilia opened the box, her hands trembling. The box held pink roses, exceedingly pink, and on top lay a card. On the card was written in a loose, boy‑handed script: “For little A‑good‑deal‑of‑whipped‑cream‑on‑top.” Breathless, Cecilia stared at the card. At last, she turned to Annie and asked, “Aren’t they lovely?” “Aren’t you, dearie,” Annie corrected, then added, “You bet they are!” You bet!" Cecilia lifted them reverently. There were three dozen of them. During her lifetime, numbers and prices still held weight. To whom should I tell her where they come from? asked Annie. " You really put her on edge, don’t you? Father McGowan," answered Cecilia. Suddenly, the guilt of another lie, the shame of her unthinkable act, and her newfound awareness of her loved ones’ standing flooded through her soul. She was wildly happy. She hugged Annie. The white furniture lacked any cold gleam. It smiled. The cramped, bustling flat lay far away. The trees in the smug park were breathtakingly beautiful. Father McGowan noted, “One new frock—twenty‑five dollars.” Hat, fifteen. ' Madam Girard's skin food and wrinkle remover cost two dollars and fifty cents. Flat-heeled shoes, seven dollars. The taxi fare was one dollar and fifty‑two cents. Church offering, ten cents. " Father McGowan threw his head back and laughed heartily. Jeremiah Madden stared at him, bewildered. It’s her cash account, you know. "Twenty-five dollars for one dress," he mused, with a pleased smile. Ain't_ she learnin' quick? But the letter—he added, frowning in puzzlement—seemed far too cheerfully written. The joy feels a little overwhelming. It smells as if she applied it with a paintbrush just for show. Hum——" grunted Father McGowan. He unfolded a pink sheet of letter paper. A daisy was engraved at the top. Jeremiah proudly said, “I give her that paper.” She was tickled. She said that none of the girls at school had anything like it. Father McGowan answered, “I do believe that.” Deep lines etched his face. Cecilia’s heartbreak pressed heavily on his shoulders; he felt it because he had created the “Brick King.” Father McGowan read, “Darling Papa: I was so happy to hear from you.” I read your letters again and again. I love you very much. I’ve come to realize that the most important thing in life is to love people and to be loved in return. I miss you, but I’m happy, of course. The school is very elegant and nice, and I get enough to eat. The view from the front windows is simply beautiful. It opens onto the park, where lush foliage surrounds a crowd of affluent people strolling about. I sometimes walk there, and a very cute little girl with bare legs likes me. Yesterday, she tossed a kiss my way. She looked just like Johnny did when he was a child, and we called that flat our home. It left me with a sudden urge to weep. I am very happy. I am deeply thankful for all that you do for me. I will be very happy to return home with you and Johnny and to share supper with Father McGowan every Saturday night. I’m sending you a few items that look like fruit‑knives but are actually butter‑spreader tools, meant for spreading butter on bread, etc. I.e., not to eat off of it. I am very happy. I attended a party held in a highly exclusive girls’ room. It was kind of her to ask me. I love you so much, Papa. Please kiss Johnny on my behalf, and give Norah a kiss as well. Inform her to use the butter spreaders daily. All the time.) " She no longer needs to cherish the blue‑glass butter dish. I do love you, dear Papa. Your, "CECILIA. " " P.S. I send my respectful regards to Father McGowan and thank him for securing my place at this exclusive school, which serves only affluent, sophisticated students. C." "Well?" Jeremiah asked, after Father McGowan had laid down a pink sheet of paper with an engraved daisy at the top. Well?" " Hum," grunted Father McGowan, "Hum!" He fixated his eyes on the brick perched atop the gilt cabinet for an extended moment. After a long pause, he announced, “I’m heading up to Boston.” I’ll drop by to see our little Cecilia. Will yuh, now?" asked Jeremiah. " It has kept me awake at night, wondering whether, despite all the expense, she was truly happy. I wanted to go up, but Johnny said that I wouldn’t be suitable for a girls’ school, since I always absentmindedly removed my collar. "You're suitable, all right," said Father McGowan, "but since I'm heading up, I might as well take care of it." It must be hard for you to step away from business, too. Yes," admitted Jeremiah happily. His heart swelled as he gazed affectionately at the brick. Then he wilted. The proud pleasure was gone. " She had always wanted a bouquet of pink roses, he said in a low voice, “and I never could buy her one, and now—!” Father McGowan placed a reassuring hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. There, there, Jerry!" he said. " Consider how happy you are making the children! A sallow boy came in. He threw a sneering gaze at the limp figure seated in a gilt chair. He silently lifted a book and stepped out. Jeremiah's eyes were like those of a frightened child. He whispered, “Sometimes I fear he’s ashamed of me!” No!" exploded Father McGowan, "No!" The scorn inflicted on those who briefly evade detection proves crueler than any guilt that remains exposed. Cecilia was treated with biting scorn, condescending stares, and, worst of all, a cold dismissal—for she had let an unknown boy purchase her soda water and a pink sundae. It was doubly revolting that the girls saw the boy as a man and that those who had seen him called him “Ravishing, my dear.” He was simply ravishing, my dear, with dark eyes and hair. Honestly, he looked as if he carried a hidden sorrow, stood on stage, or was racing in panic. There's something truly intriguing about him, you know. I can’t fathom why he would ever look at her. Cecilia settled in the corner of the room, where its shabby furnishings belied an impressive ambiance. She was perusing “Sordello” simply because the English teacher had assigned it. Cecilia was utterly uninterested; the book had slipped shut twice, leaving her uncertain where she’d paused—an annoyance—and she worried she might read a page twice, a thought she couldn’t bear. She wondered whether this Browning could have achieved success in brick‑making. She judged not. He didn't seem practical, but inwardly she was sure that he could have done anything better than write poetry. | 0.3 | Young women -- Fiction | Gray, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline) | Haviland, Katharine Taylor | 40407 | 60099 | Gray, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline)_[Mary Seaham: A Novel. Volume 3 of 3]_1500_30_0.7 | Haviland, Katharine Taylor_[Cecilia of the Pink Roses]_1500_6_0.7 |
Dr. Sloper's manner of addressing his sister Lavinia had a good deal of resemblance to the tone he had adopted towards Catherine. " Who was the young man that was making love to you?" he presently asked. " Oh, my good brother!" murmured Mrs. Penniman, in deprecation. " He seemed uncommonly tender. Whenever I gazed at you for half an hour, he exuded a most devoted air. The devotion was not to me," said Mrs. Penniman. " It was to Catherine; he talked to me of her. " Catherine had been listening with all her ears. " Oh, Aunt Penniman!" she exclaimed faintly. " He was very handsome, very clever, and he expressed himself with a great deal—indeed, a great amount—of felicity, her aunt went on. He is in love with this regal creature, then?" the Doctor inquired humorously. " Oh, father," cried the girl, still more faintly, devoutly thankful the carriage was dark. " I don't know that; but he admired her dress. " Catherine did not say to herself in the dark, "My dress only?" Mrs. Penniman's announcement struck her by its richness, not by its meagreness. " You see," said her father, "he thinks you have eighty thousand a year. " " “I don’t believe he thinks of that,” Mrs. Penniman replied; “he is too refined.” He must be tremendously refined not to think of that! " " Well, he is!" Catherine exclaimed, before she knew it. " I thought you had gone to sleep," her father answered. " The hour has come!" he added to himself. " Lavinia is going to get up a romance for Catherine. It's a shame to play such tricks on the girl. What is the gentleman's name?" he went on, aloud. " I didn't catch it, and I didn't like to ask him. Mrs. Penniman, with a certain air of grandeur, said, “He asked to be introduced to me,” but added, “You know how indistinctly Jefferson speaks.” Jefferson was Mr. Almond. " Catherine, dear, what was the gentleman's name?" For a brief instant—if the carriage hadn’t been rumbling—you could have heard a pin drop. I don't know, Aunt Lavinia," said Catherine, very softly. And, with all his irony, her father believed her. He learned what he had asked about three or four days later, after Morris Townsend and his cousin had entered Washington Square. Mrs. Penniman didn’t tell her brother on the ride home that she’d told an agreeable young man—whose name she didn’t yet know—that she and her niece would be delighted to see him. Still, she felt delighted and a little flattered when the two gentlemen arrived late on a Sunday afternoon. His arrival with Arthur Townsend made everything feel both natural and effortless; the younger gentleman was on the brink of joining the family, and Mrs. Penniman informed Catherine that, since he was about to marry Marian, it would be courteous for him to come by. Late in autumn, Catherine and her aunt sat together in the fading dusk, by the firelight, in the high‑back parlor, as those events unfolded. Arthur Townsend taken his place beside Catherine, while his companion settled onto the sofa beside Mrs. Penniman. Catherine had never been a harsh critic; she was easy to please and enjoyed speaking with young men. That evening, Marian’s fiancé made her feel somewhat fussy as he sat with his eyes on the fire, rubbing his knees between his hands. Regarding Catherine, she barely pretended to be engaged in the conversation; her attention was fixed on the far side of the room, listening to the exchange between the other Mr. Townsend and her aunt. From time to time he would glance at Catherine and smile, as though to show that what he said was intended for her as well. Catherine would have liked to move closer, to sit beside them so she could see and hear him more clearly. She feared looking bold or eager, and thought it would be impolite to Marian’s young suitor. She wondered why the other gentleman had turned his attentions to her aunt—how he felt compelled to speak so much to Mrs. Penniman, a woman to whom young men were ordinarily not especially devoted. She felt no jealousy toward Aunt Lavinia, yet she envied her a little and, above all, wondered, for Morris Townsend seemed the kind of person whose presence could keep her imagination entertained forever. His cousin had described a house he had chosen in anticipation of marrying Marian, detailing the domestic conveniences he planned to introduce; although Marian desired a larger home and Mrs. Almond had recommended a smaller one, he was convinced that he had secured the neatest house in New York. It doesn't matter," he said; "it's only for three or four years. At the end of three or four years we'll move. That's the way to live in New York—to move every three or four years. Then you always get the last thing. It's because the city's growing so quick—you've got to keep up with it. It's going straight up town—that's where New York's going. If I were not afraid that Marian would be left lonely, I’d climb all the way to the top and wait. Only have to wait ten years—they'd all come up after you. But Marian says she wants some neighbours—she doesn't want to be a pioneer. She says that if she has to be the first settler, she’d better head out to Minnesota. “I suppose we’ll climb higher, step by step, moving up to a new street once we grow tired of this one.” As you can see, we’ll always have a new house—a real advantage, letting us enjoy every latest improvement. They reinvent everything roughly every five years, and staying abreast of every new development is a wonderful thing. I always try and keep up with the new things of every kind. Don't you think that's a good motto for a young couple—to keep 'going higher'? That's the name of that piece of poetry—what do they call it?—Excelsior! " Catherine paid her junior visitor only the bare minimum of attention, enough to notice that this was unlike the way Mr. Morris Townsend had spoken the previous night, or the manner in which he was now speaking to her fortunate aunt. But suddenly his aspiring kinsman became more interesting. He seemed to have realized that she was affected by his companion’s presence and felt it proper to explain. My cousin asked me to bring him, or I shouldn't have taken the liberty. He seemed to want very much to come; you know he's awfully sociable. I told him I’d rather ask you first, but he said Mrs. Penniman had invited him. He isn't particular what he says when he wants to come somewhere! But Mrs. Penniman seems to think it's all right. " " We are very glad to see him," said Catherine. And she wished to talk more about him; but she hardly knew what to say. " I never saw him before," she went on presently. Arthur Townsend stared. " He told me that he had spoken to you for more than half an hour the previous night. I mean before the other night. That was the first time. " " Oh, he has been away from New York—he has been all round the world. Although he knows few locals, he is extremely gregarious and eager to meet everyone. Every one?" said Catherine. " Well, I mean all the good ones. All the pretty young ladies—like Mrs. Penniman!" and Arthur Townsend gave a private laugh. " My aunt likes him very much," said Catherine. " Most people like him—he's so brilliant. " " He's more like a foreigner," Catherine suggested. " Well, I never knew a foreigner!" Young Townsend remarked, his tone hinting that his ignorance was a deliberate choice. Neither have I," Catherine confessed, with more humility. " They say they are generally brilliant," she added vaguely. " Well, the people of this city are clever enough for me. I know some of them who think they’re too clever for me, but they aren’t! I suppose you can't be too clever," said Catherine, still with humility. " I don't know. I know some people that call my cousin too clever. " Catherine listened to this statement with extreme interest, and a feeling that if Morris Townsend had a fault it would naturally be that one. | He takes so wide an outlook over life that the little features of the foreground, which loom so large to those who cannot or will not look beyond them, are dwarfed to insignificance; or, rather, he can fix their just relation to the general design in human affairs, and so reads them with their context, as it were, and by the light of truth and justice spread abroad in his own heart—thus proving how different they are in essential value from what they superficially appear. Despite his natural authority, Mr. Yelverton is among the most tolerant, fine‑tempered, and generous men, moving steadily through life and bending circumstances to his will without harming anyone; rather, he lifts, steadies, and strengthens those he meets with his bold spirit and uncompromising honesty, proving in private life—like most virtuous people—that he is a faithful exemplar of domestic virtue. Elizabeth is a happy woman, and she knows it well. She feels that every bit of prosperity and comfort that should have belonged to her mother—much like the vast fortune she inherits—has been accumulating with compound interest over the long years of past generations, all for her own profit and enjoyment. She often strolls through the old plantation, where a moss‑covered column marks the spot where a mere twig—tight enough to fit in a hair’s breadth—destroyed a strong life, ruined another, and set in motion tragic consequences for countless living and unborn people; she also frequently drives to Bradenham Abbey to visit or dine with her step‑uncle’s wife, where she compares the stately surroundings of her mother’s youth—the “beautiful rooms with gold‑Spanish leather walls,” the “long gallery with painted windows, slippery oak floor, and a row of thirty‑seven family portraits”—to the bark‑roofed cottage on the sea cliff where that beloved woman later lived and died. And then she goes home to Yelverton to her husband and baby, and asks what she has done to deserve to be so much better off than those who went before her? And yet, perhaps, if we totaled all our accounts, the overall sum of losses and gains from the investments we make—or those made for us—in life would not turn out to be markedly different from one case to another. We can neither suffer nor enjoy beyond a certain point. Elizabeth is rich beyond the dreams of avarice in all that to such a woman is precious and desirable, and happy in her choice and lot beyond her utmost expectations. Yet not so happy as to have nothing to wish for—which we know, as well as Patty, means "too happy to last." Her longing for her absent sisters is met, in vain, by weekly, prodigious letters she leaves as a sort of hostage to fortune—a valuable yet not entirely trustworthy security for her most cherished possessions. THE END. | 0.1 | Young women -- Fiction | James, Henry | Cambridge, Ada | 2870 | 50476 | James, Henry_[Meleager : $b A fantasy]_1500_6_0.3 | Cambridge, Ada_[The Young Enchanted: A Romantic Story]_1500_94_0.4 |
That kind of thing gets well quickly, doesn't it?" He eyed his visitor anxiously. " You see, I've never truly been ill. "Well, we can't afford to take any risks," Sorell said firmly. I shall go and see Fanning. "If anything remains uncertain, I will take you to London and have a top surgeon examine it." What was the row about?" Radowitz’s pupils narrowed so sharply that Sorell could glean nothing from them. I really can't remember," said the lad's weary voice. " There's been a lot of rowing lately. " " Who made the row?" " What's the good of asking questions?" The speaker turned irritably away. " Last night I was plagued by such beastly dreams that I can’t tell what really happened from what didn’t. It was just a merry scuffle, that's all I know. Sorell realized that, for some reason, Radowitz refused to recount his story. He was convinced that Douglas Falloden was at the heart of it, and a fierce indignation flared within him. He, however, had to keep it to himself, since it was clear that questions both irked and unsettled the patient. He sat by the boy a little, observing him. He then suggested that he and Bateson, the scout, move the bed into the sitting‑room to improve ventilation and create more space. Radowitz hesitated, and then consented. Sorell went out to speak to Bateson. " All right, sir," said the scout. " I almost had the room settled, but I had to enlist another man to help me. They must have gone on something fearful. Every item in the room had been knocked about. Who did it?" said Sorell shortly. The scout looked embarrassed. " Well, of course, sir, I don't know for certain. I wasn't there to see. I’ve heard that Mr. Falloden, Lord Meyrick, and Mr. Robertson were involved, along with a few other gentlemen. There has been a considerable amount of ragging in this college lately, sir. I do think, sir, that the fellows should stop it. Sorell agreed, and went off to the surgery, thinking furiously. Imagine that the boy’s hand—and his remarkable talent—had been permanently injured by the arrogant bully Falloden and his entourage. Constance Bledlow had become involved with him, despite what anyone might say. He loathed the scenes from the Marmion ball, the reckless way Constance had spurred Falloden to chase her, and the chatter about Oxford. He was so absorbed in the Greats’ papers that he missed the Magdalen ball and had no word of it. Undoubtedly, that foolish child behaved in the same way there. He was thankful he had not been there to see. Still, he vowed to uncover the true facts of Radowitz’s assault and to ensure she was told. Yet the whole thing was very surprising. He had repeatedly noticed that Falloden envied Connie’s affection for Radowitz, the boy’s loyalty, and Connie’s appreciation of his musical talent. After the Marmion night, she had unwisely rewarded the fellow, leading him to behave in an abominable way. His composition held no spark of decent feeling. Radowitz lay still—thinking always of Falloden, and Lady Constance. Another knock at his door—very timid and hesitating. Radowitz said "Come in. " The door swung open just a sliver, and a head with curly hair pushed its way inside. Another head appeared behind it. " May we come in?" said a muffled voice. " It's Meyrick—and Robertson. " " I don't care if you do," said Radowitz coldly. " What do you want?" The two men came in, stepping softly. One was fair and broad-shouldered. The other exceedingly dark and broad-shouldered. Each was a splendid specimen of the university athlete. And it would have been hard to find two more sheepish, hang‑dog individuals. Standing beside the bed with his hands in his pockets, Meyrick said, “We’ve come to apologise.” We never intended to hurt you, and we’re truly sorry—aren’t we, Robertson? Robertson, sheltering behind Meyrick, murmured a deep-voiced assent. " "If we hadn't been wildly drunk, we should never have carried it out," said Meyrick; "but that's no excuse." How are you? What does Fanning say?" They looked so overwhelmingly miserable that Radowitz, surveying them with a mollified astonishment, suddenly erupted into hysterical laughter. The others watched him in alarm. " Do sit down, you fellows!—and don't bother!" said Radowitz, as soon as he could speak. " I said it to both of you as hard as I could during my speech. And you hit back. We're quits. Shake hands. " He reached out with his left hand, each of them shaking it gingerly. They both settled into their chairs, feeling utterly mortified and at a loss for what to say or do next, except that Meyrick once again asked for Fanning’s opinion. Let's have some swell down," said Meyrick urgently. " We could get him in a jiffy. " But Radowitz impatiently dismissed the subject. He noted that Sorell had gone to see Fanning, and that would be all right. Simultaneously, the ensuing fragmented dialogue made it clear that he was in considerable pain. He flickered between flushed and pallid, and sometimes could not hold back a groan that startled his two companions. At last, they rose to go, much to the relief of all three. Meyrick said awkwardly: "Falloden's awfully sorry too. He would have joined us, but he thought you might not want him. No, I don't want him!" said Radowitz vehemently. " That's another business altogether. " Meyrick muttered under his breath, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. I was the one who started the beastly thing," he said at last. It wasn't Falloden at all. " " He could have stopped it," said Radowitz shortly. " And you can't deny he led it. There's a long score between him and me. Well, never mind, I shan't say anything. And nobody else need. Good-bye." A faint, ethereal grin spread across the young man’s charming eyes as he lifted them toward the couple, again extending his free hand. They left feeling, in Meyrick’s words, “pretty beastly.” By the afternoon various things had happened. Falloden, who hadn’t gone to bed until six, awoke at noon from a deep sleep in his Beaumont‑Street digs, and, remembering all that had happened in an instant, sprang to his feet and opened the sitting‑room door. Meyrick settled onto the sofa, fidgeting with a newspaper. Well, how is he?" Meyrick reported that the latest news from Marmion was that Sorell and Fanning had agreed to take Radowitz to town that afternoon for an opinion from Sir Horley Wood, the celebrated surgeon. Have you seen Sorell?" " Yes. But he would hardly speak to me. He said we'd perhaps spoilt his life. " " Whose?" " Radowitz's." Falloden's expression stiffened. " That's nonsense. If he's properly treated, he'll get all right. Besides it was a pure accident. How could we have known that those pipes were broken? Meyrick, with a gloomy expression, said, “I would welcome Wood’s opinion when we get it.” It seems hard to picture a fellow whose hand should have been his. But of course—as you say, Duggy—it'll probably be all right. By the way, Sorell told me that Radowitz had absolutely refused to let anyone in the college know—not even any of the dons—and had forbidden Sorell himself from saying a word. "Certainly, that's far more damaging to us than any other course of action," Falloden said dryly. I don't know that I shall accept it—for myself. The facts had better be known. " " "You'd better keep the rest of us in mind," said Meyrick. It would hit Robertson uncommonly hard if he were sent down. "If Radowitz is badly hurt and the story spreads, they'll keep him out of the Eleven," Falloden said coolly. Well, let it alone, anyway, till we see. " Falloden nodded—"Barring a private friend or two. Well, I must dress. " When he opened the door again, Meyrick was gone. Fit of unbearable restlessness seized Falloden; he stepped out, gliding past Marmion, peered into the utterly silent quad, and drifted aimlessly toward the Parks. He must see Constance Bledlow, somehow, before the story reached her from other sources, and before everybody separated for the vac. | He had only written when he had found he had leisure, with decent irregularity, so to speak. Finally, on a day when she had felt the strain of waiting more than her courage could bear—counting every moment of the hour before Jane could return from her mission—she rested on the sofa and heard the girl ascend the stairs in a hurried, light step that awakened an excited hopefulness in her. She rose upright, her face lit with excitement and eyes sparkling with anticipation. How foolish she had been to fret. Now—now everything would be different. Ah! She felt immense gratitude to God for His kindness toward her. She said as the door opened, “I think you must have a letter, Jane.” I sensed it as soon as your footsteps reached me. Jane was glowing with relief and affection. Yes, my lady, I have, indeed. They informed us at the bank that the shipment arrived by steamer, though its journey had been delayed by bad weather. Emily took the letter. Her hand shook, but it was with pleasure. She forgot Jane, and in fact kissed the envelope before she opened it. It looked like a beautiful, long letter. It was quite thick. However, when she unfolded it, she found the letter itself to be surprisingly brief. Several additional sheets of notes—or instructions, whatever their purpose—seemed to have been enclosed. Her hand trembled, causing the papers to tumble onto the floor. She looked so agitated that Jane could barely bring herself to do more than quietly retire and stand outside the door. Within minutes she congratulated herself on the prudence of not going downstairs. She heard a trembling cry of wonder, followed by a frantic call for herself. Jane, please, Jane!" Rewritten sentence:
Still seated on the sofa, Lady Walderhurst looked pale and unsteady. Her hand cradled the letter, its grip weak as it rested in her lap. Her bewilderment seemed to leave her feeling completely helpless. She spoke in a tired voice. " Revised sentence:
"Jane," she said, "you’ll need to get me a glass of wine." I don't think I'll faint, but I certainly feel extremely upset. Jane knelt beside her, positioned at her side. Please, my lady, lie down," she begged. " Please do. " But she did not lie down. She sat shaking, staring at the girl in a helpless, bewildered manner. I doubt," she whispered, "that my letter has reached his lordship." He can't have received it. He doesn't say anything. He stays silent, saying not a single word. She had never fainted in her life, and as she spoke she could not understand why Jane seemed to drift up and down, with darkness suddenly coming over her in the middle of the morning. Jane, with great effort, restrained herself from tumbling off the sofa and thanked Providence for the strength granted to her. She ran to the bell, struck it with force, and when it rang, Mrs. Cupp hurried upstairs. Naturally perceptive and keen in her reasoning, Mrs. Warren’s close intellectual intimacy with her husband—providing her with the benefit of a wide range of experience—greatly enhanced her deductive powers. Warren often regarded their conversations as akin to consulting a particularly astute and empathetic professional colleague. Her suggestions or conclusions were invariably worth consideration. His reflection on them, more than once, led to excellent results. That night, she suggested something about the Extraordinary Case, and it struck him as more astute than usual. Is she an intellectual woman?" she inquired. " Not in the least. A person of unsparing brilliance might feel entitled to call her stupid. Is she talkative?" " Far from it. One of her charms is her genuine respect for the comments of others. And she is not excitable?" " Rather the reverse. If excitability is equated with liveliness, she comes across as dull. “I see,” she said slowly, “you still haven’t considered that she might simply be deluded.” Warren turned quickly and looked at her. " It is truly brilliant of you to have thought of this. A delusion?" He stood and thought it over. " "Do you remember," his wife prompted, "the complications that emerged when young Mrs. Jerrold fled to Scotland, hiding in a shepherd’s cottage under the impression that her husband had detectives tailing her?" You remember how fondly gentle she was, and how deeply horrified she felt for the poor man. Yes, yes. That was an Extraordinary Case too. " Mrs. Warren warmed with her subject. " She is a woman who, living in a lodging‑house, openly keeps to herself yet clearly possesses wealth—evidenced by a large ruby ring and official documents stamped with imposing seals—who exercises only at night and is heart‑wrung by the overdue arrival of expected letters. Every detail points to one painful, dubious situation. Revised sentence:
"Instead, she comes across as a woman entirely free of suspicion—yet she is only anxious about the one issue that a doubtful person would otherwise ignore." Could her over‑exerted physical state have driven her to believe she was hiding from danger? Dr. Warren was clearly and earnestly absorbed in the idea. She said, reflecting, that all that mattered was her safety. I want to keep safe.' That was it. You are very enlightening, Mary, always. I will go and see her again to-morrow. However, prompted by another memory, she seems remarkably sane. He contemplated this possible aspect of the matter while climbing the house’s staircase on Mortimer Street the following day. The stairway was a typical lodging‑house stairwell, its drabness only partially eased by the Cupps covering the worn carpet with clean, warm‑colored felting. The yellow‑marbled wallpaper on the walls weighed heavily on anyone who passed it, while the indeterminate dun paint had withstood the fog for years. Rewritten sentence:
"The house, in its entirety, displayed only features that would convince its proprietors that occasional redecorations would be adequate." Jane, however, had worked to improve the drawing room where her mistress spent her days. She had made gradual, discreet changes so that neighbors, accustomed to the ordinary flow of furniture vans, would not notice her modifications. She had brought in a rug and gradually swapped out furnishings for items that were more pleasant to live with and more comfortable to use. Dr. Warren observed the change and noted that money was within reach. The maid, a young woman, treated her mistress not merely with polite, proper deference, but with an attentive affection that bordered on reverence. Jane Cupp herself embodied decorum and a reputation of good standing. It was not the young women who withdrew into questionable circumstances. As she placed her hand on the drawing‑room door to open it and announce his arrival, Dr. Warren realized that he would later tell Mary that if Mrs. Jameson had ever been the heroine of an unconventional domestic drama, it was unmistakable that six months earlier Jane Cupp had felt it her duty—as a young woman—to leave that day. There she stood, in a tidy gown and apron, a familiar fixture in her favourite setting; her young, decent face radiated sympathetic interest. Outside the day was bleak and cold, but the front room felt warm and cheerful thanks to the comforting fire. Mrs. Jameson was sitting at a writing-table. A stack of letters lay before her, and she seemed to be rereading them. She did not any longer bloom with normal health. Her face looked somewhat tired, and the first thing he noticed when she lifted her eyes to him was the bewilderment there. She has had a shock," he thought. " Poor woman!" He began talking to her about herself, guided by a kindly understanding that was inseparable from him. He wondered whether it was time for her to confide in him. Whatever the cause, her shock left her utterly bewildered by what had occurred. He saw this in her ingenuous troubled face. He felt as if she were asking herself what she should do. It was not unlikely that presently she would ask him what she should do. | 0.2 | Young women -- Fiction | Arnold, Mary Augusta | Burnett, Frances Hodgson | 13501 | 17226 | Arnold, Mary Augusta_[Lady Connie]_1500_38_0.4 | Burnett, Frances Hodgson_[Emily Fox-Seton : being The making of a marchioness and The methods of Lady Walderhurst]_1500_47_0.6 |
It is not adventure to tend the sick, to bind up wounds, to cheer the convalescing; it is a dull if angelic business. In her heart of hearts Jane knew that she had accepted the hardships of the Siberian campaign with the secret hope that some adventure might befall her—only to learn that her inexorable cage had travelled along with her. Understand, this longing was not the outcome of romantical reading; it was in the marrow of her—inherent. She was not in search of Prince Charming. She rarely thought of love as other young women think of it. She had not written in her mind any particular event she wanted to happen; but she knew that there must be colour, distance, mountain peaks. A few days of tremendous excitement; and then she acknowledged that she would be quite ready to return to the old monotonous orbit. The Great War to Jane had not been romance and adventure; her imagination, lively enough in other directions, had not falsely coloured the stupendous crime. She had accepted it instantly for what it was—pain, horror, death, hunger, and pestilence. She saw it as the genius of Vasili Vereshchagin and Emile Zola had seen it. The pioneer—after all, what was it he was truly seeking? Freedom! And as soon as ever civilization caught up with him he moved on. Without understanding it, that was really all Jane wanted—freedom. Freedom from genteel poverty, freedom from the white walls of hospitals, freedom from exactly measured hours. Twenty four hours a day, all her own; that was what she wanted; twenty-four hours a day to do with as she pleased—to sleep in, play, laugh, sing, love in. Pioneers, explorers, adventurers—what else do they seek? Twenty-four hours a day, all their own! At half after eight—about the time Ling Foo slid off his stool—the tender from the transport sloshed up to the customs jetty and landed Jane, a lone woman among a score of officers of various nationalities. But it really wasn't the customs jetty her foot touched; it was the outer rim of the whirligig. Some officer had found an extra slicker for her and an umbrella. Possibly the officer in olive drab who assisted her to the nearest covered 'ricksha and directed the placement of her luggage. "China!" "Yes, ma'am. Mandarin coats and oranges, jade and jasmine, Pekingese and red chow dogs. " "Oh, I don't mean that kind!" she interrupted. "I should think these poor 'ricksha boys would die of exposure. " "Manchus are the toughest human beings on earth. I'll see you in the morning?" "That depends," she answered, "upon the sun. If it rains I shall lie abed all day. A real bed! Honour bright, I've often wondered if I should ever see one again. Fourteen months in that awful world up there! Siberia!" "You're a plucky woman. " "Somebody had to go. Armenia or Siberia, it was all the same to me if I could help." She held out her hand. "Good-night, captain. Thank you for all your kindness to me. Ten o'clock, if it is sunshiny. You're to show me the shops. Oh, if I were only rich!" "And what would you do if you had riches?" "I'd buy all the silk at Kai Fook's—isn't that the name?—and roll myself up in it like a cocoon. " The man laughed. He understood. A touch of luxury, after all these indescribable months of dirt and disease, rain and snow and ice, among a people who lived like animals, who had the intelligence of animals. When he spoke the officer's voice was singularly grave: "These few days have been very happy ones for me. At ten—if the sun shines. Good-night. " The 'rickshas in a wavering line began to roll along the Bund, which was practically deserted. The lights shone through slanting lattices of rain. Twice automobiles shot past, and Jane resented them. China, the flowery kingdom! She was touched with a little thrill of exultation. But oh, to get home, home! Never again would she long for palaces and servants and all that. The little wooden-frame house and the garden would be paradise enough. The crimson ramblers, the hollyhocks, the bachelor's-buttons, and the peonies, the twisted apple tree that never bore more than enough for one pie! Her throat tightened. She hadn't heard from the mother in two months, but there would be mail at Hong-Kong. Letters and papers from home! Soon she would be in the sitting room recounting her experiences; and the little mother would listen politely, even doubtfully, but very glad to have her back. How odd it was! In the mother the spirit of adventure never reached beyond the garden gate, while in the daughter it had always been keen for the far places. And in her first adventure beyond the gate, how outrageously she had been cheated! She had stepped out of drab and dreary routine only to enter a drabber and drearier one. What a dear boy this American officer was! He seemed to have been everywhere, up and down the world. He had hunted the white orchid of Borneo; he had gone pearl hunting in the South Seas; and he knew Monte Carlo, London, Paris, Naples, Cairo. But he never spoke of home. She had cleverly led up to it many times in the past month, but always he had unembarrassedly switched the conversation into another channel. This puzzled her deeply. From the other Americans she never heard of anything but home, and they were all mad to get there. Yet Captain Dennison maintained absolute silence on that topic. Clean shaven, bronzed, tall, and solidly built, clear-eyed, not exactly handsome but engaging—what lay back of the man's peculiar reticence? Being a daughter of Eve, the mystery intrigued her profoundly. Had he been a professional sailor prior to the war? It seemed to her if that had been the case he would have enlisted in the Navy. He talked like a man who had spent many years on the water; but in labour or in pleasure, he made it most difficult for her to tell. Of his people, of his past, not Bluebeard's closet was more firmly shut. Still with a little smile she recalled that eventually a woman had opened that closet door, and hadn't had her head cut off, either. He was poor like herself. That much was established. For he had said frankly that when he received his discharge from the Army he would have to dig up a job to get a meal ticket. Dear, dear! Would she ever see a continuous stretch of sunshine again? How this rain tore into things! Shanghai! Wouldn't it be fun to have a thousand dollars to fling away on the shops? She wanted jade beads, silks—not the quality the Chinese made for export, but that heavy, shiver stuff that was as strong and shielding as wool—ivory carvings, little bronze Buddhas with prayer scrolls inside of them, embroidered jackets. But why go on? She had less than a hundred, and she would have to carry home gimcracks instead of curios. They were bobbing over a bridge now, and a little way beyond she saw the lighted windows of the great caravansary, the Astor House. It smacked of old New York, where in a few weeks she would be stepping back into the dull routine of hospital work. She paid the ricksha boy and ran into the lobby, stamping her feet and shaking the umbrella. The slicker was an overhead affair, and she had to take off her hat to get free. This act tumbled her hair about considerably, and Jane Norman's hair was her glory. It was the tint of the copper beech, thick, finespun, with intermittent twists that gave it a wavy effect. Jane was not beautiful; that is, her face was not—it was comely. It was her hair that turned male heads. It was then men took note of her body. She was magnificently healthy, and true health is a magnet as powerful as that of the true pole. It drew toward her men and women and children. Her eyes were gray and serious; her teeth were white and sound. She was twenty-four. There was, besides her hair, another thing that was beautiful—her voice. It answered like the G string of an old Strad to every emotion. One could tell instantly when she was merry or sad or serious or angry. She could not hide her emotions any more than she could hide her hair. As a war nurse she had been adored by the wounded men and fought over by the hospital commandants. But few men had dared make love to her. She had that peculiar gift of drawing and repelling without consciousness. | She looked toward the waters again. "I can recall only one story. It was about a princess who lost all her friends through the offices of a wicked fairy. I remember it because it was the only story you told me that had a sad ending. It was one of Andersen's. Her father and mother died, and the moment she was left alone her enemies set to work and toppled over her throne. She was cast out into the world, having no friend but a dog; but the dog always found something to eat, and protected her from giants and robbers and wolves. "Many a time I thought of her, and cried because she was so unhappy. Well, she traveled from place to place, footsore and weary, but in her own country no one dared aid her, for fear of displeasing the wicked fairy, who at this time was all powerful. So she entered a strange land, where some peasants took her in, clothed and fed her, and gave her a staff and a flock of geese to tend. And day after day she guarded the flock, telling her sorrows to the dog, how she missed the dear ones and the home of her childhood. "One day the reigning prince of this strange land passed by while hunting, and he saw the princess tending her geese. He made inquiries, and when he found that the beautiful goose-girl was a princess, he offered to marry her. She consented to become his wife, because she was too delicate to drudge. So she and her dog went to live at the palace. Once she was married the dog behaved strangely, whining softly, and refusing to be consoled. The prince was very kind to them both. "Alas! It seems that when she left her own country the good fairy had lost all track of her, to find her when it was too late. The dog was a prince under a wicked spell, and when the spell fell away the princess knew that she loved him, and not her husband. She pined away and died. How many times I have thought of her, poor, lonely, fairy-tale princess! " The old soldier blinked at the doves, and there was a furrow between his eyes. Yes; how well he remembered telling her that story. But, as she repeated it, it was clothed with a strange significance. Somehow, he found himself voiceless; he knew not how to reply. "Monsieur," she said suddenly, "tell me, what has my poor father done that these people should hate him and desire his ruin?" "He has been kind to them, my child," his gaze still riveted on the doves; "that is all. He has given them beautiful parks, he has made them a beautiful city. A king who thinks of his people's welfare is never understood. And ignorant and ungrateful people always hate those to whom they are under obligations. It is the way of the world. " "And—and you, Marshal?" timidly. "And I?" "Yes. They whisper that—that—O, Marshal, is it you who will forsake us in our need? I have heard many things of late which were not intended for my ears. My father and I, we are so alone. I have never known the comradeship of young people; I have never had that which youth longs for—a confidant of my own age. The young people I know serve me simply for their own ends, and not because they love me. "I have never spoken thus before to-day, save to this dog. He has been my confidant; but he can not speak except with his kind old eyes, and he can not understand as I would have him. And they hate even him because they know that I love him. Poor dog! "What my father has done has always been wrong in his own eyes, but he sinned for my sake, and God will forgive him. He gave up the home he loved for my sake. O, that I had known and understood! I was only six. We are so alone; we have no place to go, no friends save two, and they are helpless. And now I am to make a sacrifice for him to repay him for all he has done for me. I have promised my hand to one I do not love; even he forsakes me. But love is not the portion of princesses. Love to them is a fairy story. To secure my father's throne I have sacrificed my girlhood dreams. Ah! and they were so sweet and dear. " She put a hand to her throat as if something had tightened there. "Marshal, I beg of you to tell me the truth, the truth! Is my father dying? Is he? He—they will not tell me the truth. And I. .. never to hear his voice again! The truth, for pity's sake!" She caught at his hands and strove to read his eyes. "For pity's sake!" He drew his breath deeply. He dared not look into her eyes for fear she might see the tears in his; so he bent hastily and pressed her hands to his lips. But in his heart he knew that his promise to the dead was gone with the winds, and that he would shed the last drop of blood in his withered veins for the sake of this sad, lonely child. "Your father, my child, will never stand up straight again," he said. "As for the rest, that is in the hands of God. But I swear to you that this dried-up old heart beats only for you. I will stand or fall with you, in good times or bad." And he rubbed his nose more fiercely than ever. "Had I a daughter—But there! I have none. " "My heart is breaking," she said, with a little sob. She sank back, her head drooped to the arm of the bench, and she made no effort to stem the flood of tears. "I have no mother, and now my father is to leave me. And I love him so, I love him so! He has sacrificed all his happiness to secure mine—in vain. I laugh and smile because he asks me to, and all the while my heart is breaking, breaking. " At this juncture the doves rose hurriedly. The Marshal discovered the archbishop's valet making toward him. "Monsieur the Marshal, Monseigneur breakfasts and requests you to join him. " "Immediately;" and the Marshal rose. He placed his hand on the dark head. "Keep up your heart, my child," he said, "and we shall see if I have grown too old for service." He squared his shoulders and followed the valet, who viewed the scene with a valet's usual nonchalance. When the Marshal reached the steps to the side entrance, he looked back. The dog had taken his place, and the girl had buried her face in his neck. A moment later the old soldier was ushered into the archbishop's presence, but neither with fear nor uneasiness in his heart. "Ah! Good morning, Marshal," said the prelate. "Be seated. Did you not find it chilly in the gardens?" "Not the least. It is a fine day. I have just left her Royal Highness. " The prelate arched his eyebrows, and an interrogation shot out from under them. "Yes," answered the observant soldier. "My heart has ever been hers; this time it is my hand and brain. " The prelate's egg spoon remained poised in mid-air; then it dropped with a clatter into the cup! But a moment gone he had held a sword in his hand; he was disarmed. "I have promised to stand and fall with her. " "Stand and fall? Why not 'or'?" with a long, steadfast gaze. "Did I say 'and'? Well, then," stolidly, "perhaps that is the word I meant to use. If I do the one I shall certainly do the other. " The archbishop absently stirred his eggs. "God is witness," said the Marshal, "I have always been honest. " "Yes." "And neutral. " "Yes; honest and neutral." "But a man, a lonely man like myself, can not always master the impulses of the heart; and I have surrendered to mine. " The listener turned to some documents which lay beside the cup, and idly fingered them. "I am glad; I am very glad. I have always secretly admired you; and to tell the truth, I have feared you most of all—because you are honest. " The Marshal shifted his saber around and drew his knees together. "I return the compliment," frankly. "I have never feared you; I have distrusted you. " "And why distrusted?" "Because Leopold of Osia would never have forsaken his birthright, nor looked toward a throne, had you not pointed the way and coveted the archbishopric. " "I wished only to make him great;" but the prelate lowered his eyes. | 1 | Adventure stories | MacGrath, Harold | MacGrath, Harold | 27339 | 3239 | MacGrath, Harold_[Land and Sea Tales for Boys and Girls]_1500_3 | MacGrath, Harold_[The Puppet Crown]_1500_47 |
" "I—s-shall do my d-d-duty," said the Judge. The men disappeared into the darkness, and when they had gone Glenister closed the window, pulled down the shades, and lighted a lamp. He knew by how narrow a margin a tragedy had been averted. If he had fired at those men, his shot would have sparked a feud that would have devoured every trace of the courtroom crowd, including himself. He would have fallen under a false banner, and his life would not have reached to the next sunset. Perhaps it was forfeit now—he could not tell. The Vigilantes would almost certainly see his actions as treasonous, and at the very least he had cut himself off from the only support Northland could offer. Henceforth he was a renegade, a pariah, hated alike by both factions. He purposely avoided sight of Stillman and turned his back when the Judge extended his hand with expressions of gratitude. His work was done and he wished to leave this house. Helen followed him down to the door and, as he opened it, laid her hand upon his sleeve. " Words are feeble things, and I can never make amends for all you've done for us. " " For US!" cried Roy, with a break in his voice. " Do you think I sacrificed my honor, betrayed my friends, killed my last hope, ostracized myself, for 'US'? This is the last time I'll trouble you. Perhaps the last time I'll see you. No matter what else you've done, however, you've taught me a lesson, and I thank you for it. I have found myself at last. I'm not an Eskimo any longer—I'm a man! " " You've always been that," she said. " I don't understand as much about this affair as I want to, and it seems to me that no one will explain it. I'm very stupid, I guess; but won't you come back to-morrow and tell it to me?" " No," he said, roughly. " You're not of my people. McNamara and his are no friends of mine, and I'm no friend of theirs." He was half down the steps before she said, softly: "Good-night, and God bless you—friend. " She returned to the Judge, who was in a pitiable state, and for a long time she worked to soothe him as if he were a child. She intended to ask him about the issues that occupied her mind most and that the night had only half revealed, but he grew fretful and irritated whenever she mentioned mines and mining. She sat beside his bed until he drifted into sleep, puzzling over the secrets he’d only hinted at, until her mind and body were utterly exhausted. The residual buzz of the day’s events drained her energy until she could only shuffle to her couch, where she collapsed in exhaustion, sighing—far too tired to close her eyes. She awoke finally, with one last nervous flicker, before complete oblivion took her. The handsomest woman in the North, yet Glenister had run away. By the time Helen awoke at nearly noon the next day, she realized that McNamara had ridden in from the Creek and was stopping for breakfast with the Judge. He had asked for her, but on hearing the tale of the night's adventure would not allow her to be disturbed. Later, he and the Judge had gone away together. Although her judgment approved the step she had contemplated the night before, still the girl now felt a strange reluctance to meet McNamara. She harbored no ill toward him—except perhaps for the slants made by embittered men—and she understood that every strong, aggressive person tends to make enemies in proportion to the qualities that confer his greatness. Nevertheless, she was aware of an inner conflict that she had not foreseen. This man who so confidently believed that she would marry him did not dominate her consciousness. She had lately taken long, solitary gallops along the shimmering sea she loved, and up winding valleys into the foothills where the roar of swift waters echoed and the flash of shovel blades gleamed. This morning her horse was lame, so she determined to walk. In her early rambles she had looked timidly askance at the rough men she met till she discovered their genuine respect and courtesy. The most unkempt among them were often college-bred, although, for that matter, the roughest of the miners showed abundant consideration for a woman. So she was glad to allow the men to talk to her with the fine freedom inspired by the new country and its wide spaces. The wilderness breeds a chivalry all its own. Thus there seemed to be no danger abroad, though they had warned the girl of mad dogs prowling the city, noting that hot weather strongly affects the thick‑coated, shaggy malamoots. Here is the dog’s domain—where winter consigns him to labor, shiver, and starve, but summer lets him loaf, fight, fatten, and go mad in the heat. Helen walked far and, on her return, chose an unfamiliar route through the town’s outskirts to avoid running into any of the women she knew, still haunted by the vivid memory of the night before. As she walked swiftly along she thought that she heard faint cries far behind her. Looking up, she noted that it was a lonely, barren quarter and that the only figure in sight was a woman some distance away. A few paces farther on the shouts recurred—more plainly this time, and a gunshot sounded. Glancing back, she saw several men running, one bearing a smoking revolver, and heard, nearer still, the snarling hubbub of fighting dogs. In an instant, Helen’s curiosity turned to horror as she watched one of the dogs dash through the subdued pack and sprint along the plank she was standing on. It was a handsome specimen of the Eskimo malamoot—tall, gray, and coated like a wolf, with the speed, strength, and cunning of its cousin. Its head hung low and swung from side to side as it trotted, the motion flecking foam and slaver. The creature had scattered the pack, and now, swift, menacing, relentless, was coming towards Helen. There was no shelter near, no fence, no house, save the distant one towards which the other woman was making her way. The men, too far away to protect her, shouted hoarse warnings. Helen did not scream nor hesitate—she turned and ran, terror-stricken, towards the distant cottage. She was blind with fright and felt an utter certainty that the dog would attack her before she could reach safety. Yes—there was the quick patter of his pads close up behind her; her knees weakened; the sheltering door was yet some yards away. But a horse, tethered near the walk, reared and snorted as the flying pair drew near. The mad creature swerved, leaped at the horse's legs, and snapped in fury. Terrified by the assault, the horse lunged at its halter, tore it free, and bolted away; this brief pause gave Helen—though weak and faint—a chance to reach the door. She wrenched at the knob. It was locked. While turning helplessly aside, she spotted the other woman standing just behind her—calmly holding a tiny revolver and awaiting the mad animal’s onslaught. Shoot!" screamed Helen. " Why don't you shoot?" The little gun spoke, and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping. She fired several more shots until the animal finally lay still, then calmly broke the gun, ejected the spent shells, and noted, “The calibre is too small to be good for much.” Helen sank down upon the steps. " How well you shoot!" she gasped. Her eyes were on the gray bundle whose death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet. The men had run up and were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman turned to Helen. " You must come in for a moment and recover yourself," she said, and led her inside. It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself—more than that—luxurious. There was a piano with scattered music, and many of the pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home. The hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was talking to her from the next room. " That is the third mad dog I have seen this month. Hydrophobia is becoming a habit in this neighborhood." | They brought with them an early nightfall, and when they broke let forth a tempest which rivalled that of the previous night. At the outset, armed men slipped into McNamara’s office from the back and hid themselves throughout the building. Whenever he spotted a particularly desperate ruffian, the boss would pull him aside for private instruction and give a detailed account of a broad‑shouldered, upright youth wearing a white hat and half‑boots. Slowly, he set his trap by rallying the men Voorhees had dragged up from the slums, and when it was finished he smiled to himself. After mulling it over, he stopped regretting last night’s flawed plan, because it had lured his enemies to the brink he wanted, causing them to rush into their own downfall. He imagined with pleasure the part he would play before the national press when the sensational story of the night’s adventure broke. A court official who, undeterred by a lawless mob, fulfilled his duty. A former adversary who turned a midnight raid into a chaotic rout and total shambles. That is what they would say. What if he later exceeded his authority? What if there were a scandal? Who would question? As to soldiers—no, decidedly no. He declined any help from soldiers at that time. The sight of a ship drifting toward the darkening horizon unsettled him, even though he had been reassured that San Francisco’s courts were clogged, for he knew Bill Wheaton to be both resourceful and resolute. Consequently, he was eased by watching the wind grow stronger, which ruled out any interference from that source. Let them come to-morrow if they would. By then, many mines would be unowned, and his influence would be multiplied a hundred‑fold. He phoned the mine operators to have their guards removed, though he was sure only madmen would dare strike there in spite of the warning he knew had come through Helen. After slipping into his raincoat, he set out to find Stillman. Bring your niece to my house tonight. There's trouble hanging in the air, and I'm ready for it. She hasn't returned from her ride yet. I'm afraid she's caught in the storm." The Judge gazed anxiously into the darkness. During the entire day the Vigilantes hid, impatient with their own idleness and bewildered by the lack of effort to uncover them, unaware that McNamara had even more cunning hidden plans. When Cherry’s warning note arrived, they convened in the back room and voiced their opinions. The chairman declared, “There’s no other way to clear the air.” You bet," chorussed the others. " Having garrisoned the mines, let’s sweep through town and finish it cleanly. Let’s hang the entire outfit on a single post. This met with general approval, Glenister alone demurring. He said, “I’ve come to a different conclusion, and I want you to listen to me before you decide.” Last night, I heard from Wheaton that the California courts were turning their backs on us. He claims it stemmed from influence, yet regardless of the cause, we are deprived of any legal assistance—whether in this court or on appeal. If we were to lynch these officials tonight, what advantage would we actually secure? Martial law will be declared in two hours, our mines will be shut for another year, and beyond that, who can say what further consequences may follow? Maybe a corrupter court next season. Suppose, on the other hand, we fail—and I sense that we will, since that boss is no fool. What then? Those of us who fail to locate the morgue will ultimately find ourselves in jail. You say we can't meet the soldiers. I say we can and must. We must carry this row to them. We must bypass the courts of Alaska and California and take it straight to the White House, where at least one honest man awaits. We must rouse the men in Washington to take action. We must extricate ourselves from politics, because McNamara can outshine us there. Though he is a powerful man, he cannot corrupt the President. There's only one chance left, and it has to reach the Potomac. If Uncle Sam steps in, we’ll secure a fair deal—so let’s strike at Midas tonight and seize her if we can. Some of us may fall, but what does that really matter? After his impassioned tirade, he laid out a daring plan that stole everyone’s breath; with each detailed element he added, the group’s enthusiasm flared, stirred by the thrill of a long‑shot gamble that draws risk‑takers to the edge. His boldness sparked their resolve, and their enthusiasm finished the job. All I want for myself, he said, is the chance to take the big risk. It's mine by right. " Dextry, breathless, turned to Slapjack after the pause and asked, “Ain’t he a heller?” “We’ll go with you,” the miners chanted to the man. The chairman then remarked, “Let’s appoint Glenister to lead this forlorn hope.” I am ready to stand or fall according to his judgment. They acquiesced without dissent, and with the steady grasp of a natural leader, the young man seized command. Let's hurry up," said one. " The mud stretches on for a long time, and it reaches knee‑deep. No walking for us," said Roy. " We'll go by train. " " By train? How can we get a train?" " "Steal it," he replied, and Dextry grinned at his slack-jawed companion while Slapjack flashed his toothless grin, saying, "He sure is." Just a few more words, and Glenister—along with the two others—slipped out into the swirling storm, and half an hour later the rest of them followed. One by one the Vigilantes slipped out, swallowed by darkness a mere arm's length from the doorway, until finally the big, bleak warehouse rang hollow, resonating only with the wind and water. In the eastern part of town, behind dark windows battered by sheets of rain, other armed men waited patiently for a word from the bulky shadow standing with folded arms against a gray wall, while above them a wretched old man paced back and forth, wringing his hands and pausing at each turn to peer into the night and mutter the name of his sister’s child. As dusk rolled over the town, Cherry Malotte unlocked her door and the Bronco Kid stood waiting on her doorstep. He entered and threw off his rubber coat. Knowing him well, she waited for him to disclose his errand. His pallid skin showed no trace of color, his eyes looked oddly weary, deep lines framed his lips, and his hands kept small, nervous twitches—as if he had gone days and nights without sleep, hovering on the verge of hysteria. He gave her the impression of a smoldering mine, its flames nearly touching the powder. She judged that his body had been ravaged by every passion, and now it hung jaded and weary—yielding only to the spur of his restless, revengeful spirit. After a string of meaningless comments, he abruptly asked, “Do you love Roy Glenister?” His voice, as eager as his manner, watched her closely as she answered—without quibble or deceit: “Yes, Kid, and I will always.” He is the only genuinely authentic man I have ever known, and I bear no shame for my feelings. He stared at her for a long moment before launching into rapid speech, giving her no chance to interject. I’ve stepped back—again and again—because I’m not one to talk. I can’t do this within my profession, yet this is my final chance, and I want to make things right with you. “Since the Dawson days, I’ve loved you—not in the way one would expect from a man like me, but in a way a woman truly yearns for.” I never laid my hand out; what use would it have? That man outheld me. I was ready to quit playing Faro years ago, but I couldn’t leave this country while you were still part of it; here I’m just a gambler, nothing more. I had decided to let you have him until something happened a couple of months ago, but now it can’t take place. I'll have to down him. It isn't concerning you—I'm not a welcher. | 0.8 | Historical fiction | Beach, Rex | Beach, Rex | 5076 | 51840 | Beach, Rex_[The Spoilers]_1500_38_0.2 | Beach, Rex_[The Spoilers]_1500_47_0.7 |
I went with our chiefs to Exeter when we first came seeking a home, to promise tribute if we were left in peace in the place we had chosen. Gerent was amenable, but Morgan, who asserted a claim to the Devon portion of the realm, opposed our settlement entirely, and tensions flared. However, Gerent and we had our way, and so we thought to hear no more of the matter. Following this, Morgan assembled a force to drive us out, only to have the attempt backfire and become the worst outcome of the affair. That angered Gerent, for he lost some good men outside our stockades. And then other things cropped up between them. I have heard that the old king uncovered Morgan’s lies about Prince Owen, whom the people hope to see again, yet I know little about it. Anyway, Morgan and his brother fled, and this is the end thereof. We heard too that he plotted to take the throne, and it is likely. " " Thanks, friend," Ina said. " That is a plain tale, and all we need to know. But what say men of Owen, whom you spoke of? Is it known that he lives?" " Oh ay. They say that you know more of him than any one. Men have seen him here at Glastonbury. Yesterday, Gerent arrived at Norton—just beyond the Quantocks—and it is believed he intends to send you a missive inquiring after his own well‑being. In West Wales there will be great joy if he returns to the king’s right hand, for many would imagine him to be a fairy prince based on how he is talked about. Thereat Ina smiled at Owen, and Thorgils saw it, and knew what was meant in a moment. He glanced at Owen and, frankly, said, “True enough, Prince, but I didn’t realize I was speaking to a listener.” I swear that if you return, you'll have hard work ahead to meet what's expected of you. More pertinent, Morgan has more allies than he needs, and it is likely that they will unite to seek vengeance on his behalf. Howbeit," he added with a quaint smile, "it shall not be said that Thorgils missed a chance. Prince, if you do go back to Gerent you will be his right hand, as they say. Therefore I will ask you at once to have us Norsemen in favour, so far as we need any. Somewhat is due to the bearer of tidings, by all custom. " Ina laughed, and Owen even smiled at the ready Norseman, but Herewald the ealdorman and I were struck by how he spoke to us as equals, utterly unafraid of the king—a demeanor utterly alien to men who stood before Ina. Then said Owen quietly: "Friend, I think there is a favour I may ask you, rather. I have bided away from my uncle, King Gerent, because I would not return to him unasked, being somewhat proud, maybe. But now it seems to King Ina and me that I must go to him to bring the news of Morgan’s death. This could easily ignite a war between Wessex and West Wales, for if the man tried to kill our king in his court, it might also be announced that a prince of Dyvnaint was slain here. There is full need that the truth should reach the king before rumour makes the matter over great. You have seen all, and are known to the Welsh court as a friend. Come with me, therefore, tomorrow and tell the tale. " " That I will, Prince," Thorgils said. " You will be welcome; but as I warn you, there will be need for care. " " You know somewhat of the ways of the Welsh court," said Ina. " Needs must, Lord King. As a shipmaster, every trader I ferry across the sea—whether to South Wales, Bristol, or as far as Ireland—shares all he has learned with me. It were churlish not to listen, and then we need warning against such attacks as that of Morgan. Moreover, one likes somewhat to talk of. " " That is plain enough," said Nunna, laughing. " Maybe I do talk too much," answered the Norseman. " It is a failing in my family. But my sister is worse off than I am. Ina ordered us to muster a formidable guard, and I would return with them—whether Owen joined us or not—as the situation unfolded. That night I slept little, for all too well I knew that henceforth my life and that of my foster‑father would diverge, and I could not tell how far apart our paths would turn. There was no love of the Saxon in West Wales, nor of the Welshman in Wessex. GERENT. Gerent – the West Welsh king we all called by that name – governed every corner of Devon and Cornwall, from the fens of the Tone and Parrett Rivers to the very edge of Land’s End. Those broad fens, over which he could not travel, had kept King Kenwalch from pushing Wessex any further westward. For many years they formed our frontier until, just before Ina came to the throne, Kentwine crossed them to the north, cleared the marauding Welsh from the Quantock hills and forests—stretching from river to sea—and settled honest Saxon franklins here and there in the newly won land to hold it for himself. Morgan launched his raid from those deep, wooded hills—an assault that failed badly for both him and his brother—because the barren country beyond was still a no‑man’s land where outlaws, mostly coming from the Welsh side, could easily find refuge. With our men now as familiar with the fenland as the Britons are with its hidden routes, a little effort would suffice to stir the tide of war back toward the west. With the moment seeming to arrive for his departure from Ina, Owen bitterly feared that the long‑lasting peace would shatter, for that loss would sever old bonds and force a painful farewell from me. The future of the peace remained doubtful, and the people credited Aldhelm’s wisdom as the sole reason it had endured—now that he was dead. It had not been long since a West Welshman would not even dine with a Saxon—his hatred for us had been so great, though it had since faded somewhat. Perhaps the matter would have passed smoothly, had it not been for the inevitable rift between the two churches—differences that kept resurfacing and stoking bitterness again and again. Aldhelm, whom Gerent honored, had made earnest attempts to ease those tensions, with only limited success. It was widely known that most Welsh clergy and lay‑folk bitterly opposed any peace with those who followed the Augustinian rule of Canterbury. I almost wondered why Ina seemed eager to part with Owen, but soon realized that if Gerent reclaimed him, my foster‑father would bridge the two realms, fostering peace in all respects. Even so, in my heart lingered a modest hope that, despite the Norseman’s warnings, Owen would not be welcomed back to the west, for otherwise I would lose him entirely. There was no intercourse between our courts, now that Aldhelm was gone. But in the morning, when I came to say some of this to Owen, he smiled at me, and said: "Wait, Oswald. Time enough for trouble when it comes. Perhaps we’ll return tonight, and if not, I hope my staying with my uncle will bring peace to our lands. Let it be so till we have seen what may be our fortune at Norton. " So I tried to let the trouble pass, and indeed at the morning meal I had my new rank to think of, for my comrades would not forget it, nor would they let me do so. | Thorleif and his men boarded the prize over her bows and went aft, Ecgbert going with them. The two vessels pulled apart once again, and I slipped back to Thrond’s side, while the men gathered on the gunwale, waiting for their chief’s return. Who is the queen yon Saxon speaks of?" asked Thrond. I told him that, since we’d recently heard much about her, I’d also recounted how some claimed the king himself had found her on the shore. As Thrond’s face grew even more solemn, he asked, “Lad, is that a true tale?” My father learned it from the thane who was with the king when they discovered her. Her name was not Quendritha when she began that voyage, was it? I have heard that she was a heathen. Mayhap the king gave her the name when she was christened. It means 'the might of the king.' " So I suppose he did it in hopes of what his wife might become. Nor had the name been ill‑chosen; as it turned out, by this time everyone knew that the queen was the wisest adviser in Mercia’s council for all major matters. “Thrond said he had always believed she would safely complete that voyage.” Ran would not have her. " " What do you mean?" " Lad, I saw her start thereon, or so I think. Tell me when she was found. " That I could do, within a very short time. My father and Offa had married in the same year, as I had heard him say a few days earlier in Winchester, where men spoke of the bride we had welcomed—the daughter of Quendritha. And as he heard, Thrond's face grew very dark. " That is she. Now I will tell you the beginning of that voyage. I served as a courtman to Thorleif’s father, our local jarl, and personally prepared and launched the boat. And then he told me exactly what I had written at the start of this tale—no more, no less. He never told me the full extent of the harm she had wrought, and I’m glad. After he finished, he sat in silent brooding for a long time. The vessel trudged reluctantly across the waves, trailed by a weighty trader, while on our deck the men sat in silent vigil, awaiting Thorleif’s orders. From time to time we heard his laughter mingle with that of the crew on the other vessel, as though everything were proceeding without trouble. "Lad," old Thrond said, turning abruptly toward me, "you'd best put that behind you." It is hazardous to uncover even a fragment of the secrets of great men; should Quendritha learn that someone is telling such a tale about her, the teller’s life will be worth little. Maybe I’m mistaken, in speaking of a woman long since drowned; after all, it seems unlikely that a girl could have crossed the sea from Denmark to claim a throne. If it is indeed true, she has behaved exactly as Thorleif’s father directed her, forsaking the ill ways she once took. And yet," he said again, "if ever you have to deal with her, remember what she has become." It would be unwise to offend her or to cross her in any way. “That is the hardest thing the people say about her,” I replied, “but I’ve heard it many times.” There is much in that saying," Thrond answered grimly. " "I replied curtly, 'If any man dares to oppose a king or a queen, he must be ready to take the risks.'"} There’s little chance that such a person would be the queen—at least not the kind of woman I helped set adrift from our shore. Meaningly that was said, and I had no answer. I was pleased to see Thorleif appearing at the bow of the prize and greeting Thrond. He said, “Send the Saxon lad aboard—we’ve met a friend for him.” That could be none but the atheling, and I leaped up. The crew strained on the tow lines as the two ships slowly drifted toward one another. Thrond," I said breathlessly, "will Thorleif let me go?" " Of course," he answered, smiling. " We only picked you up again to save your life. He intended to bring you ashore in England at once, for he believed you had kept your promise to us and could not bear to let you suffer for it. The trader’s bow scraped against our stern, and one of the men hoisted me up over its gunwale with such earnest goodwill that I tumbled sprawled amid the coils of rope on the foredeck. When I straightened up, I saw Ecgbert and Thorleif at the stern while the Danes were searching the ship, and I made my way toward them. As I approached, the atheling stared at me and then hurried forward, offering an outstretched hand in welcome. Why, Wilfrid, old comrade, how come you here? I have only heard of a West Saxon, and I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad for you. "Good luck enough, I think," I answered, gripping the handle firmly. I still had not yet dared to imagine how long it would be before I could lay eyes on home again. His face fell, and he looked doubtfully at me. " I cannot take you home, Wilfrid; I am flying thence myself. He says the Danish chief will get you ashore at the first opportunity. Why, what is amiss again? " " The old jealousy, I suppose," he answered grimly. " As if a boy like me was likely to topple a throne! I had barely settled in Mercia as a fighter against the Welsh and a hanger‑on to Offa’s court when Bertric’s messengers arrived, requesting my surrender and proposing a marriage alliance. Offa, being an honest man, intended to send the message back unanswered. However, the queen was determined to see the match through, and because I was in the way, it was obvious that I had to step aside. Rather than waiting for Quendritha to remove me, I chose to remove myself. Alone?" I asked. " Alone, and that hastily. You’re not acquainted with Mercia’s lady, so you wouldn’t dare to ask. I realized that in the last half‑hour I’d learned more about that lady than even Ecgbert had—so I felt that he had acted wisely, if Thrond’s tale was true, which I was beginning to believe. Yet I could not accept that a Wessex prince might be alone, lacking even a housecarl to tend to him or stand at his back when in need. I followed my father’s teachings, eager to learn all I could. Here is your duty, son Wilfrid. First to God; then to the king, followed by the king’s heir (the atheling); next to one’s parents, then, if they are loyal, to the shire reeve and the ealdorman; and finally to a helpless woman and a friendless poor man. However, the weak must come first, no matter who wrongs them—whether it is the king or even myself. Where will you go, atheling?" I asked quietly, my mind rattled with a thousand unfinished thoughts. I cannot tell yet. I am an outcast. " I knelt on the deck before him, offered my hands for him to clasp, and as he struggled to stop me I declared: “Wherever you go, I will follow, to serve you in good times and in bad.” Little use I may appear, yet I could still serve a purpose; and surely the Wessex atheling will not deny that some would follow him. Wilfrid," he cried, "I cannot let you leave everything for me." Then Thorleif, who had been watching us in silence, said, “Take him, prince, for you will need him.” He has stayed loyal to us—even though he could have slipped away easily—because he believed his word bound him. He has proven himself a true warrior on the sea, as I know well. Let him go with you, and be glad of him. " " I am reluctant to take him away from his folk to share my misfortunes. That is naught," said Thorleif. " Pay a trader who is going to England to tell other chapmen to pass the word to his folk where he is. | 0.8 | Historical fiction | Whistler, C. W. (Charles Watts) | Whistler, C. W. (Charles Watts) | 13315 | 13438 | Whistler, C. W. (Charles Watts)_[A Prince of Cornwall A Story of Glastonbury and the West in the Days of Ina of Wessex]_1500_14_0.4 | Whistler, C. W. (Charles Watts)_[A King's Comrade: A Story of Old Hereford]_1500_11_0.6 |
That you should keep the threads of so complicated a business all so distinct is simply wonderful. You certainly give me hopes that I never had before. " "I never doubted for a moment," returned the young man, "but that when this Roman incubus was removed all would go well. Besides, who is there to attack us? We have no enemies. " "No enemies!" replied the other, in a tone of surprise. "Do you forget the Saxons by sea and the Picts by land. " "I believe that neither will trouble us. They are not our enemies, but the enemies of Rome. They have harassed—they were quite right in harassing—the oppressors of the world: they will respect, I am sure, the liberties of a free people. When Britain is as independent as they are we shall be friends. " Martianus could not help smiling sarcastically. "That is very fine. One would think that you had been a pupil in one of the schools of rhetoric which you so much despise. The most famous of our declaimers could not have put it better. But I am afraid that there will be some difficulty in explaining all this to them. " "In any case, we can defend ourselves," returned the young chief, "though I do not think that the need will occur. " "Let us hope not," said Martianus, but his tone was not confident or cheerful. There were, it may easily be supposed, not a few other subjects for discussion, and the conversation lasted for a long time, the young chief showing throughout such a mastery of details as greatly impressed his companions. When he had finished a brief silence followed. It was broken by the priest. There was a special solemnity in his tone, which seemed to claim an authority for his utterances, quite different from the position that he had taken up while politics or military matters were being discussed. "My children," he said, "this is a grave matter. The weal or woe of Britain for many generations is at stake. If we fail, we may well be undone for ever. You cannot enter on so great an enterprise without the favour of the gods, and the favour of the gods is not easily to be won. For many years they have lacked the sacrifice which they most prize. I myself, though I have completed my threescore years and ten, have but once only been privileged so to honour them. The time has come for this sacrifice to be offered once more. Have I your consent, my children? But indeed I need not ask. This is a matter in which I cannot be mistaken, and from which I cannot go back. " The young chief nodded assent, but said nothing. He was evidently disturbed. "What do you mean, father?" he said. "The sacrifice which the gods most prize," answered the old man, "is also that which is most prized by men. The most perfect offering which we can present to them is the most perfect creature they themselves have made. Sheep and oxen may suffice for common needs; but at such a time as this, when Britain itself is at stake, we must appease the gods with the blood of MAN. " Martianus grew pale. "It is not possible," he stammered. "Not only possible, but necessary," calmly returned the priest. "Our fathers were commonly content to offer those who had offended against the laws; but in times of special necessity they chose the noblest victims. Even our kings have given up their sons and their daughters. So it must be now. " All this was absolutely horrible to Martianus. He did not believe indeed in Christianity, but it had influenced him as it had influenced all the world. Whether he was at heart much the better may be doubted. But he was softer, more refined; he shrank from visible horrors, from open cruelty—though he could be cruelly selfish on occasion—and from bloodshed, though he would not stretch out a finger to save a neighbour's life. And what the priest said was as new and unexpected to him as it was hideous. He had no idea that this savage faith had survived in Britain. "Father," he said, "such a thing would ruin us. Such a deed would raise the whole country against us. A human sacrifice! It is monstrous! " "You are right so far," returned the priest, "the country must not know it. Britain is utterly corrupted by this new faith, a superstition fit only for women, and children, and slaves; and I don't doubt but that it would lift up its hands in horror at this holy solemnity. But there is no need that it should know it. It must be done secretly—so much I concede. " "And the victim?" "Well, the days are passed when a Druid could lay his command on Britain's noblest, and be obeyed without a murmur. The victim must be taken by force, and secretly. " "And have you any such victim in your thoughts?" The priest hesitated for a moment; but it was only for a moment. He resumed in a low voice, which it evidently cost him an effort to keep steady— "I have not forgotten the necessity of a choice; indeed for months past it has been without ceasing in my mind, and now the choice is made. The victim whom the gods should have is a maiden, beautiful and pure. She is of noble descent, though her father was compelled, by poverty and the oppression of the Roman tyrants, to follow a humble occupation. Thus she is worthy to be offered. And yet no true Briton will regret her fate, for she has deserted the faith of her ancestors for the base superstition of the Cross." "And her name, father?" said both of the conspirators together. Again the priest hesitated; a close observer might even have seen a trace of agitation in that stern countenance. "It is Carna," he said, after a pause, which raised the suspense of his hearers almost to agony. "It is Carna, adopted daughter of Count AElius." And he looked steadfastly at his companions' faces, as if he would have said, "I dare you to challenge my decision. " The two started simultaneously to their feet. Not long before, young Ambiorix, who was then not yet possessed by the fanatical patriotism which now mastered him, had admired her beauty and sweetness of manner, and had had day-dreams of her as the goddess of his own hearth. Then a stronger love had come in the place of the old. It was not of woman, but of Britain free among the nations, as she had been before the restless eagles of the South had found her, that he thought day and night. Still, he could not calmly hear her doomed to a horrible death, and for a moment he was ready to rebel against the sentence of the priest. The older man was terribly agitated. He had been for many years on the friendliest footing with the Count, a frequent guest at his table, almost an intimate of the house. And Carna was an especial favourite with him. Her sweetness, her simplicity, and a pathetic resemblance that she bore to a dead daughter of his own, touched him on the best side of his nature. "Priest," he thundered, "it shall not be. I would sooner the whole scheme came to ruin; I would sooner die. A curse on your hideous worship! " The priest had now crushed down the risings of human feelings which his training had not sufficed to eradicate. "You have sworn by the gods," he said, "and you cannot go back. If you do not hesitate to betray Britain, at least you will not dare to betray yourself. You know the power I can command. Go back from your promise to follow my leading, and you are a dead man. You are faithful?" he went on, turning to Ambiorix. "You do not draw back?" The young chief returned a muttered assent. The older man, meanwhile, was in a miserable condition of indecision and terror. Unbeliever as he was, having long since given up the faith of his fathers, and never accepted the doctrine of the church but with the emptiest formality, he had not put from his breast the superstitious fear that commonly lingers when belief is gone. And he knew that the priest's threatened vengeance on himself was no empty boast. The strength of Druidism had passed, but it still had fanatics at its command, whose daggers would find their way sooner or later to his heart. The cold, cynical look with which he had entered on the conference had given place to mingled looks of rage, remorse, and fear. "You must have your own way," he muttered, sullenly. | " Hugh, as may be supposed, was not backward to accept his proferred hand, and good care did he take, not even by a look, to shew that he knew himself to be rather the injured than the injurer, in the dissensions which had taken place. A few brief questions and replies followed, while Edward spoke in a low tone with the Earl of Gloucester, whose eyes, Hugh de Monthermer remarked, were fixed earnestly and somewhat sternly upon himself. At length the Prince turned, and bending gracefully to Lucy de Ashby, and another lady who was with the party, told them that, though the Queen was still absent in France, the Princess Eleanor waited for them in the hall. "She is a cousin of yours, you know, fair lady," he added, addressing Lucy, and then turning to his prisoner, he said "We have a grand banquet to-night, Monthermer, at which you must find strength to be present.—I have my father's commands to invite you. " Hugh bowed low, and as the guests passed on, he retired thoughtfully to his own chamber. It was still early in the day; the hour appointed for the banquet was late, and his first reveries were full of joy and love, but a discomfort of a trifling, yet annoying kind, crossed the young knight's thoughts from time to time. Separated from all his attendants, kept a close prisoner up to that period, both by his wounds, and by his situation—he was totally without the means of appearing at the table of the King with that splendour which the customs of the day required.—The only suit he had was that which he then wore, the pourpoint, namely, over which at Evesham he had borne his armour. Some other necessaries had been supplied to him, as a kindness, by one of Edward's attendants; but still—though resolved, at all events, not to be absent from the banquet—how could he appear in garments soiled and rent, where all the pomp and pageantry of England were sure to be displayed! "I will send to the Prince," he thought, "and let him know the situation in which I am placed; but still, though doubtless, he will now give me means of sending to my own friends, both for money and apparel, the supply will come too late, for this day's necessities at least, and even if he himself furnishes me with gold for present need, where can I buy, in this lonely situation, any thing that I want? " While he was thus thinking, the sound of steps in his ante-room showed him that some one was approaching; and in a moment after, two of the inferior attendants of the court entered, bringing in between them, one of the long heavy cases of leather stretched upon a frame of wood, which were then used for carrying arms and clothing in the train of an army. "This was brought here last night, my lord, and left for you," said one of the servants. "The chief sewer opened it by mistake, and finding that it contained apparel, sent us with it. " Hugh smiled, thinking that it was a kindly stratagem of the Prince to furnish him with what he needed; but ere the two men had quitted the ante-room, Edward himself re-entered it, coming to offer the assistance of his purse or wardrobe, and taking blame to himself for not having thought before of his friend's need. Hugh laughed, and pointing to the coffer, thanked him for what he had already sent; but the Prince denied all knowledge of it, and on opening the case, which Edward insisted on his doing before his eyes, he found that it was filled with apparel of his own, nearly new, which had been left behind him in Yorkshire, in the early part of the year. "This must be the doings of the fairies, my lord," he said; "but as I cannot always count upon these nimble gentry thus attending to my wants, I will beseech your Grace to let me send a messenger to enquire after my own poor friends and attendants who were scattered at Evesham, and to bring me such a number of men and horses as I may be permitted to maintain while a prisoner, as well as some small supply of money. " "If you will write," said Edward, in reply, "I will send immediately. But let us understand each other completely, Monthermer. I think on many accounts that it may be better for you to reside some few months at the Court of England, and I believe, at all events, that you yourself will not be eager to quit it, while a certain bright lady remains with the Princess. Your being my captive is the only excuse that can be given for your prolonging your stay, where it is very needful you should remain; and this is the reason why I do not publicly set you free. But as in this changeful world," he continued, in a marked and significant manner, "one never can tell what the next day may bring forth, and as it may be necessary, either for your happiness or your safety, under some circumstances, to fly at a moment's notice—for I can neither trust the fierce Mortimer, nor the cruel Pembroke—I promise to fix your ransom whenever you require it; and, should need be, you may act upon this promise as if I had already given you liberty—I will justify you whenever it takes place. In the meantime, however, you must play the part of captive demurely, and make the best of your opportunities, my young friend; for I have learned from one of your enemies the state of your affections, and I doubt not that your lady love will willingly listen to your tale if you choose a fair hour for telling it.—Nay, no thanks, Monthermer! Take what money you want from my purse till your own arrives; and now, adieu. " Hugh conducted the Prince to the door of his ante-room, and then returned, proposing to examine more fully the wardrobe which had been so unexpectedly sent to him, thinking that perhaps he might find something to indicate from what hand it came. But before he did so, he sat down thoughtfully, and gazed out of the small casement of his chamber, while, strange to say, his spirit seemed oppressed. In every point his situation was happier and better than it had been a few hours previous; the storm cloud which had obscured his hopes was clearing away; his mind had been made more easy in regard to his uncle's safety; liberty appeared before him, and he was near to her he loved; but, nevertheless, he felt a sadness that he could not account for. As the first impression of the fresh air upon a person going out after a long sickness will give them a sensation of faintness, even while it revives them, so will the return to hope and happiness, after a long period of despair and sorrow, bring with it a touch of melancholy even on the wings of joy. It was in the great hall at Eltham—that splendid hall which still remains, attesting, like many other monuments, the magnificent ideas of an age which we, perhaps justly, term barbarous, but which displayed, amongst many rude and uncivilized things, a grasp of conception and a power of execution in some of the arts, that we seldom if ever can attain even in these more generally cultivated times. In the great hall at Eltham, about an hour after sunset, was laid out a banquet, which in profuse luxury and splendour as far exceeded any, even of our state repasts, in the present day as the hall that overhung it excelled the lumbering architecture of the eighteenth century. The table actually groaned under masses of quaint and curious plate,—many of the cups and dishes blazing with jewels, and an immense emerald, in the shape of a cross surrounded by wax tapers, surmounting and ornamenting the centre of the board. The dresses of the guests were of all those bright and glittering colours so universally affected by rich and poor in those days; and gold and precious stones were seen sparkling all around, not alone ornamenting the persons of the fairer sex, but decorating also the garments of the men. Though the guests themselves only amounted to seventy, and the broad table at which they sat looked small in the centre of the hall, yet the number of attendants, carvers, cup-bearers, butlers, and sewers, was not less than two hundred, without including the harps, the trumpets, the minstrels and the spectators, who were admitted within certain limits. | 0 | Historical fiction | Church, A. J. | James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford) | 44083 | 49987 | Church, A. J._[The Count of the Saxon Shore; or The Villa in Vectis. A Tale of the Departure of the Romans from Britain]_1500_18 | James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)_[Vanina Vanini; Pallianon herttuatar: Kaksi kertomusta]_1500_62 |
" "Don't attend to 'em at all till you're ready," said Miss Fortune — "let 'em wait." And she handed him a glass of cider. He drank it off at a breath, smacking his lips as he gave back the glass to her hand, and exclaiming, "That's prime!" Then taking up his saddle-bags from the floor, he began slowly to undo the fastenings. " You are going to our house to-night, ain't you, Father Swaim?" said Jenny. "That's where I was headed," the old man said, "I was planning to stop by your father's place, Miss Jenny, but since I'm now in Farmer Van Brunt’s hands, I don’t know what fate awaits me; after that glass of cider, I hardly care." Now let's see — let's see — 'Miss Jenny Hitchcock,' — here's something for you. I should like very much to know what's inside of that letter — there's a blue seal to it. Ah, young folks! — young folks! Jenny received her letter amidst a great deal of laughing and joking, and seemed herself quite as much amused as anybody. " ' Jedediah B. Lawson—this is for your father, Miss Mimy; it saves me a long journey. If you have twenty‑one cents in your pocket, that's fine; if not, I’ll have to keep traveling. Here's something for 'most all of you, I'm thinking. ' Miss Cecilia Dennison' — your fair hands — how's the squire? — rheumatism, eh? I think I'm younger than your father, Cecilly, yet I have lived many more years than Squire Dennison—and that means I’ve seen far more. Miss Fortune Emerson' — that's for you; a double letter, Ma'am. " Ellen, her heart hammering, edged closer and closer to the old man until she stood by his right hand, watching every letter as it was handed out. Her cheeks flushed deeper and deeper as she scrolled through every letter, erupting into a sudden blaze of red when the final name appeared. Alice watched, uneasy, as the letter moved from the old man’s hand to her aunt’s, then into the pocket where Miss Fortune coolly handed it. Ellen could not stand this; she sprang forward across the circle. " Aunt Fortune, there's a letter inside of that for me — won't you give it to me? — won't you give it to me?" she repeated, trembling. Her aunt did not notice her by so much as a look; she turned away and began talking to some one else. The red had left Ellen's face when Alice could see it again — it was livid and spotted from stifled passion. She stood in a kind of maze. Seeing Alice’s anxious, sorrowful expression, she covered her face with her hands and fled from the room as quickly as she could. For some minutes Alice heard none of the hubbub around her. Then came a knock at the door, and the voice of Thomas Grimes saying to Mr. Van Brunt that Miss Humphreys' horse was there. " “Mr. Swaim,” Alice said as she rose, “I don’t think you should stay with these merry friends tonight; you’ll have no chance to rest with them.” Will you ride home with me?" Many of the party began to beg Alice would stay to supper, but she said her father would be uneasy. The old news‑carrier decided to go with her, saying he wanted to remind Parson Humphreys that he had forgotten to bring the pint he’d mentioned two months earlier when they were discussing that very subject. Nancy fetched her items from the next room, helped her carry them, and looked as pleased as she could by the smile and kind words she received. Alice lingered at her leave-taking, hoping to see Ellen — but it was not till the last moment that Ellen came in. She said nothing, yet two small arms wrapped around Alice’s neck, holding her with a close, earnest embrace that stayed with her all evening. When she was gone, the company settled back into their work, and apple‑peeling carried on more steadily than ever until the barrels were emptied and the last basket of apples was worked through. Then there was a general shout; the kitchen was quickly cleared, and everybody's face brightened, as much as to say, "Now for fun!" While Ellen, Nancy, Miss Fortune, and Mrs. Van Brunt rushed about with trays, pans, baskets, knives, and buckets, the fun began when Mr. Juniper Hitchcock whistled for his dog and ordered it to perform a variety of tricks for the amusement of the gathering. The dog and its admirers rushed, leapt, barked, laughed, and scolded, turning the room into an uproar. He leapt over a stick, slipped into a chair and sat upright on two legs, kissed the ladies’ hands, had an apple paring pressed across his nose, then threw it up in a sudden jerk and caught it in his mouth. Nothing in particular was remarkable, but as Miss Fortune told someone, “If he had been the learned pig, there could have been no greater fuss about him.” Ellen stood looking on, smiling partly at the dog and his master, and partly at the antics of the company. Presently Mr. Van Brunt, bending down to her, said — "What is the matter with your eyes? " " Nothing," said Ellen, starting — "at least nothing that's any matter, I mean. " " Come here," said he, drawing her on one side; "tell me all about it — what is the matter? " " Never mind — please don't ask me, Mr. Van Brunt, it's nothing I ought to tell you — it isn't any matter. " But her eyes were full again, and he still held her fast doubtfully. "_ "I'll tell you about it, Mr. Van Brunt," Nancy said as she passed them, "you let her go, and I'll tell you by and by." And Ellen tried in vain afterwards to make her promise she would not. " Come, June," said Miss Jenny, "we have got enough of you and Jumper — turn him out; we are going to have the cat now. Come! — Puss, puss in the corner! Go off in t'other room, will you, everybody that don't want to play. Puss, puss!" The festivities truly took off, and within minutes Ellen was laughing wholeheartedly, as if grief had never touched her. Following “puss, puss in the corner,” the game of blind‑man’s‑buff began, played with great enthusiasm by Nancy and Dan Dennison—who were the most distinguished players—while Miss Fortune also performed admirably. Ellen had watched Nancy play before, but the way Mr. Dennison’s long body twisted around cramped corners and vanished into the air just as a “blind man” was about to grab him left her so amazed that she forgot her own part of the game. When he was blinded, he seemed to instinctively know where the walls were; steering clear of them, he swooped across the room like a hawk, pouncing on unlucky people who couldn’t escape in time. After a while, someone called out for “the fox and the goose,” and Miss Fortune was chosen as the goose, having shown strong leadership in the previous game. But who for the fox? Mr. Van Brunt? " Not I," said Mr. Van Brunt — "there ain't nothing of the fox about me; Miss Fortune would beat me all hollow. " " Who then, farmer?" said Bill Huff; — "come! who is the fox? Will I do?" " Not you, Bill; the goose 'ud be too much for you. " There was a general shout, and cries of "Who then? who then?" " Dan Dennison," said Mr. Van Brunt. " Now look out for a sharp fight. " Amid the cacophony of laughter and confusion, a line formed: each person grasped a handkerchief or band that was passed round the waist of the person ahead, except when women held one another by their skirts. There were ranged according to height, the tallest being next their leader, the "goose." | "Well, what's the matter?" She remarked upon seeing Ellen's face, but as her gaze fell to the floor, her brow darkened. Mercy on me!" She sighed slowly, her voice deliberate, and whispered, “What on earth have you been up to?” where have you been?" Ellen explained. " Well, you've crafted an image of yourself! Sit down!" Her aunt said abruptly, thrusting a chair onto the hearth by the fire, “I should have thought you’d have the wit to keep yourself out of the ditch.” Ellen replied, “There’s no ditch at all.” "No, I suppose not," said Miss Fortune, energetically tugging at Ellen’s shoes and stockings with her forefinger and thumb. I suppose not! I suspect you were gazing up at the moon or the stars. Everything appeared green and slick, Ellen noted; each part matched the next, and she instantly understood she was right up to her ankles. Why did you go there at all? said Miss Fortune, shortly enough. " I couldn’t determine where the water was coming from and was eager to discover its source. I hope you’ve learned enough for today. Just look at those stockings! Haven’t you ever owned a pair of colored stockings? You keep poking around in the mud with those white ones. No, ma'am. " " Are you saying you never wore anything but white ones at home? Yes, ma'am; I've never owned any other pair. Miss Fortune’s thoughts were so complex that she simply sprang up and departed without uttering a word. She soon returned, carrying a worn pair of gray socks, and told Ellen to put them on as soon as her feet were dry. How many of those white stockings do you have? she said. " Mamma bought me half a dozen pairs of new ones just before I came away, and I had just as many old pairs as well. Now, go up to your trunk and bring me every pair of white stockings you have. “There's a pair of old slippers you can wear until your shoes dry,” she said, tossing them toward Ellen; “they’re not too big.” She thought, “They’re only a touch larger than the socks, but far too big for me,” yet she said nothing. Following her aunt’s request, she gathered all her stockings and carried them downstairs. Go to the barn, find Mr. Van Brunt, and tell him you want him to bring you some white maple bark when he comes home for dinner—white maple bark, understood? Ellen stepped aside, but reappeared within moments. “I’m unable to get in,” she said. What's the matter?" " Those great doors are shut, and I cannot open them. I knocked, but no one answered. Knock at a barn door!" said Miss Fortune. " Enter through the small cow‑house door on the left and then circle around. He's in the lower barn-floor. " Below the chip‑yard’s level the barn sat, and from a little bridge on its roof a great doorway opened onto the second floor. Traversing the stretch of outhouses, Ellen reached the modest door her aunt had mentioned. What on earth should I do if there are cows inside? said she to herself. Ellen peered into the empty cow‑house, cautiously scanning left and right so as not to disturb a horned creature, and then crossed the building, stepping through the thick, wet‑and‑dry straw of the yard to reach the lower floor of the barn. The door of this stood wide open. Ellen's gaze softened with delight as she stepped inside. The room was vast, its walls perpetually covered in hay that stretched to the ceiling, interrupted only by a few towering upright posts; the floor was immaculately clean except for stray strands of hay and scattered wheat grains, and a sweet fragrance lingered, though Ellen could not discern its source. But no Mr. Van Brunt. Searching for him, she moved her uncomfortable slippers back and forth across the floor to no avail. Hilloa! what's wanting?" At last, a rough voice cried out—one she remembered very well. But where was the speaker? She scanned every corner and side, yet she could not locate him. She looked up at last. Through a large opening or trap‑door on the upper floor, Mr. Van Brunt’s round face peered down at her. He smiled and asked, “Well, have you come out here to help me beat the wheat?” Ellen informed him of her purpose. "White maple bark," he said slowly, "I'll bring it." I wonder what the wind carries now. Ellen’s thoughts lingered as she slowly walked back to the house, especially when her aunt began pairing her stockings two by two. What will you do with them, Aunt Fortune? she at last ventured to say. " You will see when the time comes. Mayn't I keep out one pair?" Ellen said, convinced that something mysterious would keep her stockings from ever appearing white again. No, just follow what I tell you. At dinner, Mr. Van Brunt arrived bearing the white maple bark. She cast it straight into a brass kettle of water that Miss Fortune had already placed over the fire. Ellen was certain that this had something to do with her stockings, but she felt unable to ask any questions; as soon as dinner concluded, she headed straight to her room. It didn't look pleasant now. The brown woodwork and the rough, dingy walls had lost their gilding. The sunshine had slipped away, and even more disquietingly, it had slipped from Ellen’s heart too. She went to the window and opened it, yet nothing held it in place; it slipped back shut as soon as she released it. Bewildered and sad, she leaned her elbows on the window sill, gazing at the grass plain before the door, the little gate that opened onto the lake, the gentle meadow, and the varied countryside beyond. Beneath the soft October light the scene looked fair and pleasant, yet for Ellen its charm had vanished, leaving it utterly dreary. She stared aimlessly, unaware of what lay before her, tears rising in her eyes; weary of the view from the window, she turned her head away. Her gaze landed on the trunk; her thoughts instantly drifted to the desk inside, and her heart leapt. I will write to mamma!" No sooner said than done. The trunk opened quickly, and hurried hands pulled out item after item until they reached the desk. But what shall I do?" There was no trace of a table. Oh, what a place! I’ll shut the trunk and set it on the desk. But first, I need to return all of these things. They were quickly stowed away, and then, kneeling by the side of the trunk, Ellen, with affectionate hands, opened her desk. She pulled a sheet of paper from her drawer, set it before her, dipped the pen in ink, and first wrote hurriedly, then with trembling fingers, “My dear Mamma.” Ellen’s heart swelled with each of the three words; as she barely finished the last “a,” she slammed the pen down, flung it from the desk, and collapsed onto the floor in a burst of grief. It felt as if her mother were again cradled in her arms, and she clung with a death‑grasp, unwilling to be separated. And then a sense of separation flooded over her. Poor Ellen was now flooded with a bitter sorrow that even a small heart could barely comprehend. In the throes of childish despair, she yearned to meet her end and almost swore it was her rightful fate. After a while, though not a moment, she rose from the floor and resumed her writing; though the weeping had somewhat eased her heart, the tears kept flowing, blotting the page she could not keep clean. By the time she realized it, the first sheet had already been spoiled; she fetched another. MY DEAREST MAMMA,—It makes me so glad and so sorry to write to you, that I don't know what to do. | 0.8 | Young women -- Fiction | Warner, Susan | Warner, Susan | 18689 | 28376 | Warner, Susan_[The Wide, Wide World]_1500_79_0.3 | Warner, Susan_[The Wide, Wide World]_1500_32_0.7 |
Gale had made a flying visit to her room to don a bathing suit for a swim, and finding Phyllis absent, concluded that the Doctor had kept his word. Gale was mulling over the things Phyllis had told her the previous night. Phyllis had endured a grueling struggle these past weeks, and none of them could have imagined it. Those few words spoken the night before had finally made Gale aware of the turmoil Phyllis was fighting. She was terrified that the miraculous treatment Doctor Elton had administered might not hold. Something must be done! The girls must do something to bring back Phyl's self-confidence. But what? Only Phyllis herself could really go through this trial. She must try her own strength. That was the only way she could ever truly be sure of herself again. Phyllis and her father sat on a bench overlooking the lake. Gale waved as they saw her approaching. Phyllis' hand rested in the crook of her father's arm, and she looked very happy. Gale told herself that finding Phyl's father had wrought miracles—though not the most crucial one. Doctor Elton strolled away from Phyllis and approached Gale. Just beyond the girl's earshot, they stopped. They chatted for a few minutes; then Gale approached Phyllis as Doctor Elton headed toward the campus. Glorious afternoon," Gale said dropping beside Phyllis. " So nice and warm in the sunshine," Phyllis agreed. " Where did my Dad go?" " He said he was meeting Doctor Norcot, but would be back shortly. Have you seen Janet or Carol today?" " No. Valerie told me they were riding again. After hearing about it, Ricky flew off to join them. Been here long?" " No. "I waited for my dad to bring me down," Phyllis said. Gale glanced at Phyllis as crutches lay on the grass beside the bench, then her eyes drifted across the lake’s blue waters. Her eyes were narrowed in silent thought. She noted the dense forest on the far shore, the tranquil waters along the grass‑lined bank almost at her feet, and the perilous current out in the centre of the lake—yet her thoughts were far from any of those sights. Have you tried to walk today?" she asked. " No." " Why not?" Phyllis sighed. " “I’ll try it some time— for now I’m simply at peace.” Doesn't your father want you to try?" " That is all I hear," Phyllis said wearily. " "He insists—and he's a real stickler," she added, smiling. But you are just as determined to wait," Gale laughed. " Well, when you decide let me know." She stretched lazily. " I think I'll go for a swim. " She pulled a red bathing cap from her jacket pocket and slipped it over her curls. She shed her jacket and waved to Phyllis as she hurried off. "Try not to drift too far out—otherwise you’ll risk being caught in the current," Phyllis cautioned. I'll be all right," Gale called back. Phyllis watched the blue waters close over her friend. With a little sigh she leaned back. She wished heartily she could be in there with Gale. However, she couldn't, so why worry about it? Gale was having a glorious time. The water was cold but she did not mind it. Her strokes cut the water cleanly and swiftly. The water beside the shore was tranquil, its surface punctuated only by a few delicate ripples that drifted toward the bank. Gale moved slowly and carefully, extending herself a little farther out, always conscious of the whirlpool of water that flowed relentlessly toward the falls at the lake’s far end. Gale frequently swam in the bay waters close to her home. Despite being a top swimmer and diver in high school, she chose not to compete in Briarhurst’s event. The sun steadily sank further into the west, and Phyllis grew increasingly impatient to head back to the sorority house, even as she still wanted to wait for her father. Gale noted that he had vowed to return immediately, yet he had yet to arrive. Gale lingered in the water for a long while, and when Phyllis spotted signs of distress she considered urging her to return to Happiness House. All was not well with her friend. " Help, Phyl!" Faintly, Gale’s voice drifted across the blue waters of the lake that lay between them. Phyllis gripped the bench hard. Gale struggled in the water, trying to keep her head above the surface. Anxiously Phyllis looked about. The two girls were alone at this point. Phyllis called aloud but her voice echoed hollowly back to her. The frantic splashes in the water dimmed as Gale’s strength waned. Once again Phyllis shouted, but there was no answering call. Phyllis reassured herself that Gale, a strong swimmer, would pull through. She was also reminded that even seasoned swimmers can drown, and Gale was being pulled further into the swirling current. Phyllis whispered a quick silent prayer that help would miraculously arrive from somewhere—but it did not. In the woods, silence prevailed, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves and the chirping of birds. The water lapped the shore just as gently and undisturbedly. Horror stricken, Phyllis saw Gale's red cap disappear beneath the surface. Anxiety, an urge stronger than herself to help Gale, gripped Phyllis. She turned a blind eye to the crutches on the grass, forgetting her fear of walking. Her eyes were on the water—seeking sight of the red cap. It bobbed to the surface and she rose to her feet. The cap vanished beneath the blue waters once more, and Phyllis hurried toward the shore. Miraculously, her father emerged from a cluster of shrubs while, a little farther back in the tree‑laden thicket, Doctor Norcot appeared. Oh—hurry—Gale——" Phyllis began desperately. Doctor Elton let out a shrill whistle. Gale’s red cap surfaced, and she paddled toward the shore with clean, efficient strokes. She climbed dripping wet up the bank. " Gale——" Phyllis began. " "I’m sorry I scared you, Phyl," Gale said gently, "but I didn’t actually drown." Our plan worked, Doctor Elton," she added triumphantly. " Your plan?" Phyllis whispered as she realized, for the first time, that she was standing on her own—she had truly walked several paces unaided. Gale put a wet arm about Phyllis. " Darling, you did it!" she exclaimed. " You forgot yourself and walked. " " Then you weren't really in danger!" Phyllis echoed. " But I was so frightened I could think of nothing else but “helping me,” Gale finished. That was exactly what we counted on. " Phyllis took a deep breath. " “Now I'm going to walk back to the sorority house,” she declared, her voice steady with resolve. Phyllis slipped her arm within her father's. With his help she led the way back to the campus. Doctor Norcot and Gale followed more slowly. " Do you think she is doing too much at once?" Gale whispered. " Doctor Elton knows best," the college physician replied. Upon reaching Happiness House, Phyllis was in the highest of spirits. Despite feeling exhausted, she refused to admit it and insisted on heading to the dining room to claim her usual spot beside Gale. The girls greeted her with hilarity and a warm welcome. Even Marcia Marlette expressed her pleasure at seeing Phyllis back. After dinner, Phyllis headed upstairs with Gale and went straight to bed. She was exhausted not only from the unfamiliar physical exertion but also from the mental strain. Gale, seated at her desk, drafted a lengthy letter to Brent. Later she sank to her knees by the window, letting the May breeze ripple through her hair as she watched the lights in the other dormitories dim one by one. From the room upstairs came smothered giggles and a thump. Marcia Marlette and her roommate were having a party. Gale frowned at the night. To Gale and the other girls' surprise, Marcia was chosen as sorority president for the next term. Gale didn’t know how the feat had been accomplished, and she was not enthusiastic about it. Marcia would never match the friendly warmth that Adele Stevens displayed as president this term. Gale rebuked herself. She mustn't believe the worst until it happened. Marcia had been exceedingly nice to Phyllis this afternoon. One could imagine the demands of her fresh position coaxing a kinder, brighter side of Marcia’s personality. But Gale doubted it. With Marcia at the helm, the coming term seemed unlikely to bring much light to the sorority. Gale yawned and crawled into bed. | With a little sense of comfort she remembered the French girl's words of earlier that evening. " Chérie, you must not weep. A little time and everything will be well again. " She must believe that! The thought that somewhere someone might be looking for her—though she didn’t know where or how to reach them—filled her heart with yearning. Her hand was hanging over the side of the bed when something cold and wet was thrust into it. Startled, she jerked back, and in the moonlight she caught sight of a fluffy Toto. While searching the house for a warm, welcoming spot to spend the night, he accidentally found himself in her room. She patted the bed beside her and, though his short, clumsy legs made it hard, he leapt into her arms and snuggled close. On morning, Antoinette discovered the dog curled in Gale’s arm, both of them sound asleep. She smiled to herself and gently lifted the dog to the floor. He grunted in protest at being awakened from his blissful slumber, and Gale's eyes fluttered open. Bad Toto!" Antoinette scolded. " Waking Chérie. You are wicked! " Under the warm sunlight, Toto blinked, casually dabbed his paw with his red tongue, and hopped back into Gale’s arms. Antoinette laughed. " He has already fallen in love with you," she said in uncertain English. Gale laid her cheek on the dog's soft head. She could feel the fast beating of his little heart. She rubbed his ear and he cocked his head in appreciation. " I like him," she said. Antoinette smiled. The stranger looked much better this morning. A faint blush returned to her pale cheeks, and Toto had already managed to bring a smile. Antoinette brought Gale’s breakfast into her room, and while she stepped out, Gale rose, dressed herself, and felt relieved to have regained her physical vigor. Toto looked on with silent, doggy admiration. As she slipped her blouse over her head, Gale’s fingers brushed the delicate golden chain, where a small, round locket hung. She turned the locket over in her fingers, and only under the bright morning light could she barely discern the word etched on its surface. What is it?" Antoinette had entered unperceived by Gale. Over her shoulder Antoinette looked at the locket. " Ah! Your name—Gale!" So it was that Antoinette and her brother learned the name of the stranger. Of course, they had no idea of her last name, and aside from simply giving her a name, the discovery was of little help. Evidently the name meant nothing to the girl herself. It stirred absolutely no familiar memories. Time slipped away, each day spent either in the cozy little cabin or trekking with Antoinette through the snow‑blanketed outskirts. Since they rarely left the house, it was unsurprising that no word from the outside world ever reached Antoinette or her brother. Without a radio, newspapers or visitors, they could have no idea that the girl in their home was the focus of a nationwide search. Gale won the hearts of the two and became a natural part of their daily routine. She shared the daily chores with Antoinette, and in return the other girl taught Gale to speak her own native language. At night was the most difficult time for Gale. During the day she would be busy with Antoinette or playing with Toto. During the night, when she was tucked in and the others slept, she would lie awake, searching for a thread that might unravel the mystery of her former life. Tonight was one of the nights when she could not sleep. Silently she got up and put on her coat. She tiptoed to the door and stepped out into the cold, Canadian night. She lingered in the moonlight for a while before slowly walking toward the cluster of trees to the right. The scent of pine was in the air and the wind stirred the branches faintly. She inhaled the crisp night air deeply, and a tingling chill ran up to her fingertips. The silence and friendliness of the night stirred a faint memory of another such night. Somewhere, sometime she had stood exactly so, in the quiet darkness of night. But where or when she did not know. She felt keenly alive, standing there in the snow and silence. She realized she was feeling far better than the first morning she awoke in the little cabin, yet that alone wasn’t enough. During her stay with Antoinette and her brother in their modest home, she learned many new things. Unconsciously, her mind had noted the worth of the uncomplicated life they led, the crispness and purity it supplied. Once more standing there she tried to bring the dark past into the light. Yet it proved pointless, only perplexing her and filling her with a profound, hopeless sorrow. She turned slowly, retracing her path through the cluster of trees back to the little cabin. Half way across the clearing a humming noise broke the stillness of the night. She raised her eyes to the stars. An airplane was winging its way across the path of the moon. Gale gave the flying thing no name. She merely stood and watched until it had faded into the west. For a moment she almost grasped the remembrance of her flight with Brent. Then the memory was gone and she could not recall it. As she stared at the airplane, the clouds seemed poised to burst, yet her mind had grown even darker. She returned slowly to the cabin and to bed but she could not sleep. All night she lingered on the strange sense of familiarity she felt while watching the airplane. It must unlock her past, a missing piece of her memory puzzle, if only she could place it in the right spot! Towards dawn she slipped into a light sleep, but Antoinette’s first noise awakened her, and all day she struggled to tie the memory of the airplane to her thoughts. If only she could remember! She assisted Antoinette with the household chores, stitched two buttons onto her jacket, and frolicked with Toto before lunch. After lunch, Antoinette suggested that she and Gale walk into the little town to restock the rapidly depleting supplies of flour and canned goods. Although François was initially reluctant to let his sister travel, she eventually persuaded him to grant her permission. Dressed in the wool‑coat that had kept her warm on Brent’s airplane and in a close‑fitting cap Antoinette had given her, Gale set off briskly between Antoinette and the leaping, frolicking Toto. The two girls chatted brightly, as Antoinette steadily uncovered more about the mysterious girl who had so unexpectedly entered their lives. It took a pleasant hour to reach the small French village where Antoinette and her brother shopped for supplies. As Antoinette greeted friend after friend and slipped into tiny shops to stock supplies, Gale, Toto at her heels, wandered down the crooked cobblestone streets, both of them delighted by the sights. Toto relished the town’s plentiful nooks and crannies, and Gale delighted in every street that promised a pleasant surprise. Brent flew countless additional trips between Marchton and Canada, but every time he returned without any hopeful news for the eager listeners. Gale had disappeared as neatly as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. The wreckage of his plane had been cleared from the crash site, leaving only a few trees whose bark had been scraped by the impact to mark where it had fallen. He had visited every nearby farmhouse and personally inquired for news of Gale. To all his efforts he had received the same result—nothing. But Brent was nothing if not dauntless. Not for nothing had he flown thousands of miles, in sun and storm. He had gained a courage and determination scarcely to be equalled. Now he could put his determination to good use. He needed it all to keep him from giving up the search. Give up? He could not! He meant to find Gale. How or where he did not know, but he would find her. He had to. He had learned a lot of things since that night by the hangar when he and Gale had exchanged confidences. | 0.9 | Adventure stories | Blank, Clair | Blank, Clair | 45343 | 45308 | Blank, Clair_[Privateers and Privateering]_1500_24_0.4 | Blank, Clair_[The Adventure Girls in the Air]_1500_16_0.4 |
To see a man—a young man courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her money—one to whom he would, were she poor, hardly deign to address a word—selling himself body and soul for gold—oh, it makes one shudder—it tempts me to unjust, harsh thoughts of the whole species. Hateful!" Mr. Howard looked at his companion with considerable surprise. She was plainly using forceful words, clearly awash with the very emotions she expressed. Despite his complete ignorance of his aunt’s marriage and the fact that he never entertained such thoughts, he wondered whether she might be alluding to him and Lady Osborne—though he could not admit any wrongdoing that warranted condemnation, it was possible that his conduct might still be viewed in that light by her. He didn’t pause to weigh whether such personal reflections were likely or fitting to her character; instead, he slipped into a reverie about his own manners, only to be roused when she spoke again. I’m genuinely ashamed, Mr. Howard, for speaking so harshly just now. Please forgive my words if you can. I beg you not to judge me as ill‑natured simply because I spoke in a bitter tone. Some situations inevitably stir unpleasant feelings, yet the past is behind us and should not be allowed to provoke anger. "I suspect we've drifted far from the very point that sparked these thoughts," Mr. Howard said, trying to regain his composure. Tom Musgrove was the commencement of our dissertation on flattery. " " Mr. Musgrove—indeed he was present—yet I had forgotten him; my thoughts had drifted far afield, lingering there for many months. "Your opinion of him seems rather low," he observed, his relief clear upon the sentence’s end. Emma remarked that her opinion of him carried little weight and was not worth discussing, adding that although she had seen him only a few times, she believed her father did not hold him in high esteem. Yet you cannot refuse to acknowledge that he enjoys a wealth of reasons to convince himself. Indeed, there was more than enough—sufficient to make any further discussion on the subject unnecessary. He is handsome too, in the opinion of most women. " " I do not deny it. " " And you know he has a very comfortable independence. " " At that juncture, Mr. Howard, I am incredulous: independence is precisely what he desires. His principal object seems to be to follow another. " " I see you are hardened against him. " " You think me prejudiced, no doubt. " " I have no intention of challenging your prejudice or persuading you to like him against your will. A pause fell as Emma snapped out of her reverie and exclaimed, “It is almost dusk—we must really return home.” Indeed, we can return another day; I’m sure you may come whenever you wish, and I would be delighted to escort you. Immediately the door swung wide, and Lord Osborne stepped into view. After rendering his compliments, he lingered for a moment, then observed, “You must possess an intimate taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to linger in the gallery even when its light has nearly vanished.” I presume breathing the same air is enjoyable for those who appreciate art. "We have lingered longer than we foresaw, my lord," Emma remarked, "and I am deeply grateful to your sister for graciously permitting this enjoyment; we had hoped she would be with us." It is a splendid thing to possess such a wealth of fine pictures, each bearing distinguished names. I have a couple of favorites: there’s an excellent horse portrait by an unknown artist, and a Dutch painting of game birds that’s so lifelike you could almost imagine them still alive. Did you notice it?" " Not particularly—I do not care much for still life. " " Howard knows everything about them—he has their names, dates, and details right at the tip of his tongue. Don't you find it a deuced bore to listen to it?" " In fact, I’m very grateful to Mr. Howard for the information. I would be glad, for my part, to have a piece of information: how, I beg pardon, I managed to miss you on my walk down the straight path to the parsonage. Because we did not come up the straight path, my lord. " " Honestly, on my honour, I was surprised to find that you’d already slipped away when I arrived. Holloa! how can that be!' said I, 'I did not meet them—no indeed.' ' Did you not!' cried Mrs. Willis. ' Well deuce take it, that is extraordinary!' " " Did she say so indeed," said Emma with exemplary gravity. " I don’t mean to claim she actually spoke those words—though judging by her look, I’m sure she meant them. But now, my lord, we ought to bid you good evening, lest Mrs Willis be left waiting for dinner; though I can endure her swearing, I would prefer not to vex her. Ah, yes—Mrs. Willis is mistress, I know—and the parson there, like myself, is under a woman’s governance; there is no mother or sister to keep her in order. I'll be bound a wife is nothing to it. You can’t evade a sister, nor compel her to be quiet and obedient—she has never taken on that role, as wives are expected to when you marry them. But I have heard, my lord, that they sometimes break their word and rebel,—said Emma, feigning solemnity. Ah, but that’s the husband’s fault—he gives them too much leeway, so I keep a strict hand on them; that’s my rule. I advise keeping this secret if you hope to marry, for a woman would be unlikely to wed you upon learning your opinion. Seriously—well but I am sorry I said so then. " " Never mind—nothing’s been harmed yet; I promise you won’t be betrayed. Now that we’re at Miss Osborne’s room, will she expect us to look in, or should we straightaway head home, Mr. Howard? "We'll see if Rosa’s there," her brother said, opening the door as he spoke. The room was empty, and there was nothing left to do but head back home. Emma was vexed to find the young peer persisted in escorting them. Although his talk was much shorter than Mr. Howard’s, she felt far more weary of it. Her only remedy was to hurry her walk, and the coldness of the air provided a plausible excuse. The stretch that had taken nearly half an hour to ascend was now traversed in five minutes, and, breathless but glowing, the party reached the door of the parsonage. Lord Osborne was compelled to depart, so Emma hurried to her room to prepare dinner. “Well, Emma,” Elizabeth cried, “I’d love to know what you’ve been doing all this time—how long you’ve been gone!” Looking at pictures, Elizabeth—you know what I went for. " " I know exactly what you pursued, but how can I know what you lingered on? Pictures, indeed—I spent two and a half hours lost in them, even as the light faded. Emma laughed. " Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?" She cried as her sister lifted a candle to illuminate her face. Which have you been flirting with?" said Elizabeth taking her sister's hand, and closely examining her countenance. " Which of your two admirers—the peer or the parson—do you prefer? How can you ask such an unnecessary question?" Emma returned, blushing and laughing yet struggling to disengage herself, and asked, “Would you hesitate yourself? Isn’t Lord Osborne the most captivating, elegant, lively, and fascinating young nobleman who ever made rank gracious and desirable?” Would you not certainly accept him?" " Indeed, I think I should; becoming Lady Osborne would make me mistress of all those rooms, servants, carriages, and horses. I think I would like it, but then I would have no other choice. I don’t intend to stand in your way of accepting him—if he puts an offer toward you, don’t turn it down just because of me. Very well—once I am Lady Osborne, I shall be kind to Mrs. Howard, inviting her to dine with me on most Sundays and on several weekdays as well. I hope she will like it. | As to believing Emma Watson guilty of anything deserving censure, I cannot until it is proved. " " I consider my authority good enough, said Miss Carr. You rely solely on hearsay, Fanny—having taken what Lady Fanny was told by self‑proclaimed gossipers, who were either spies themselves or merely relaying others’ slanders. I refuse to accept your claims—there is no verifiable evidence or testimony that would hold up in a court of law. "You are determined not to see nor to understand, Rosa, and you cannot speak in that manner," retorted Fanny angrily. “Lady Gordon replied, ‘We will never agree, so we’d best not discuss this any more; perhaps we could go to luncheon instead.’” After another discussion about the riding party, they decided that all five would go on a horseback excursion, with Emma entitled to mount the calm, gentle horse that Sir William Gordon had so strongly recommended. Just as they began, a neighboring young man stopping for a morning visit joined the party, and Lady Gordon invited him to accompany them. Whether motivated by a search for novelty, a desire to provoke through contrast, or some other unknown reason, Miss Carr treated him as a victim, and whenever the road widened enough to split, the two stayed side by side. For the others, the arrangement was oddly pleasant, as it allowed at least two engaging talks for some of the participants. Lady Gordon wanted to discuss the subject Miss Carr had raised with her husband in private, and she seized the chance to begin it while they were among a party of six. She explained everything straightforwardly, beginning with the accusation of a flirtation with him and concluding with the claim of his tarnished character. Sir William listened solemnly, his attention fixed on her eloquent narrative, and he did not interrupt with a remark or a question. She finished her tale before he opened his mouth, and turning fully toward her, he asked, "Well, have you decided to evict her from the house?" I am strongly inclined to do so, and I assure you that any attempt to sow discord between us is utterly unforgivable. Sir William replied coolly, “You must first be completely convinced that the attempt has indeed been made.” My dear William, what other word could you use to describe her accusation that Emma flirted with you? She could not make me jealous, yet it was ill‑natured of her to say so; if the scandal were to reach Emma’s ears, it would naturally make her uncomfortable. I beg your pardon, Rosa, her husband replied with a smile, “We were talking about different people; I presumed you understood my question as regarding Miss Carr, whereas I was actually referring to Miss Watson, and your answer surprised me.” So it well might. Could you imagine me capable of conveying to Emma what Fanny might say? I expected you to know me better. I shall pay no attention to the Croydon scandal, save for treating poor Emma with greater kindness; as for you, I must kindly ask that you do the same. Talk to her and walk with her as much as you like; I am not afraid for either of you. Sir William’s eyes revealed a depth that his terse reply did not, and she could read their hidden meaning; thus when he said, “Thank you, I hope we shall neither of us abuse your confidence,” she found it entirely satisfactory. In the meantime, Lord Osborne forced Emma to undergo a catechism, a process whose purpose she could not comprehend. He began by asking where she had stayed before visiting his sister, clarified Miss Bridge’s ties to Croydon, and confirmed that Mr Bridge was her friend. He then found out whether she still had relatives in town, and with evident satisfaction learned that her eldest sister remained there and that her brother had also settled in the place. Emma told him that her sister was soon to marry a well‑regarded brewer in town, unconcerned whether that news might affect her standing with him. He appeared utterly content with the findings of his investigation, yet he offered nothing to explain the purpose behind his questions. Recognizing that she was due a response, she eventually asked what all these questions were intended to uncover, daring to insist on an explanation. He hesitated for a while before flatly telling her he would not disclose it, making her asking pointless; although she might eventually learn it, he added in a confidential tone that he would be away for a short time, hoping to return to her in a few days. She could not pretend to be sorry at his departure, since she cared very little about it; instead she asked whether his sister was aware of his plans. He told her that she had not yet been admitted, but that he would inform her at the earliest opportunity, because he hadn’t yet had time to do so; the plan had sprung suddenly from news he had heard that morning. Emma was too indifferent toward him to care why he was traveling; she barely suspected it had anything to do with her, but after Fanny Carr’s morning scandal, he had decided to go to Croydon to track down and refute what he believed were mere slanders, and when he successfully proved her innocence he intended to offer her both his title and his fortune. He was delighted at the prospect of proving his devotion to her through a daring act of knight‑errantry, believing it would make him irresistible; moreover, should the truth‑teller be a man, he intended to challenge him, convinced that such a duel would win any woman's heart. His ideas on the matter were largely shaped by old-fashioned novels, where the hero invariably fought at least three duels to vindicate his lady‑love. Soon after Emma received the news, the group fractured: Lady Gordon convinced her husband to exchange places with her brother for a number of reasons. One motivation for her was to discuss the reports about Emma with Lord Osborne and learn what he thought of Miss Carr’s stories. She likewise wanted to keep him away from Emma—whom she thought he had been enjoying too long a tête‑à‑tête—and she was determined to prove, as a wife, that she felt no jealousy, despite her friend’s insinuations. Emma consistently took pleasure in Sir William’s company and conversation, especially cherishing this part of her ride far more than its beginning. She was convinced that Sir William liked her, a feeling that made their interactions wonderfully agreeable; and because she was entirely unaware of the scandal Miss Carr had tried to insinuate, she never imagined that their together‑ness might ever be broken. Despite Lady Gordon’s eloquence and persuasive powers—bolstered by intense curiosity—she failed to coax her brother into acknowledging his reason for leaving home or voicing a definite opinion about Miss Carr’s stories. On that point, he was particularly obstinate, merely shouting, “Pshaw!” Rosa, don’t ask me about anything she says—you know I never listen to her. The detail that most intrigued her was how her brother planned to travel; when she asked him, he simply told her to guess. In vain she attempted to do so. His carriages were all enumerated in vain—his horses, his servants, were not to accompany him; she concluded that he must be going on foot, and the object of his journey became more mysterious than ever. | 0.6 | Young women -- Fiction | Hubback, Catherine Anne Austen | Hubback, Catherine Anne Austen | 54010 | 54066 | Hubback, Catherine Anne Austen_[Disputed Handwriting An exhaustive, valuable, and comprehensive work upon one of the most important subjects of to-day. With illustrations and expositions for the detection and study of forgery by handwriting of all kinds]_1500_29_0.6 | Hubback, Catherine Anne Austen_[Meditaciones del Quijote]_1500_64_0.9 |
but indeed I would much rather have it only in one. "If you would please, send everything to Mrs. Goddard’s—I’m not sure—no, I think, Miss Woodhouse, I could just as well have it sent to Hartfield and bring it home myself at night." What do you advise?" " That you do not give another half-second to the subject. To Hartfield, if you please, Mrs. Ford. " " Aye, that will be much best," said Harriet, quite satisfied, "I should not at all like to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard's. " Voices approached the shop—or rather one voice and two ladies: Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates met them at the door. " "My dear Miss Woodhouse," she said, "I’ve just come along to ask if you might come sit with us for a moment and share your opinion of our new instrument, you and Miss Smith." How do you do, Miss Smith?—Very well I thank you.—And I begged Mrs. Weston to come with me, that I might be sure of succeeding. " " I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Fairfax are—" "Very well, I am much obliged to you. My mother is delightfully well; and Jane caught no cold last night. How is Mr. Woodhouse?—I am so glad to hear such a good account. Mrs. Weston told me you were here.—Oh! Then I said, “I must hurry over; I’m sure Miss Woodhouse will allow me to entreat her to come in, and my mother will be delighted to see her—and…” I said, I would be far more confident of succeeding if one of you would accompany me. And, by the bye, every body ought to have two pair of spectacles; they should indeed. Jane said so. I meant to take them over to John Saunders the first thing I did, but something or other hindered me all the morning; first one thing, then another, there is no saying what, you know. At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. After the baked apples returned, Mrs. Wallis had her boy deliver them; they were always exceptionally polite and helpful to us Wallises, for although some people have alleged that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give rudeness, we have never witnessed anything but her utmost attentiveness. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. Yet, by mid‑afternoon she becomes ravenous, and nothing pleases her more than these baked apples, which are remarkably wholesome; I seized the opportunity the day before to ask Mr. Perry about them and happened to encounter him on the street. Not that I had any doubt before—I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us. " Emma would be "very happy to wait on Mrs. Bates, &c.," and they did at last move out of the shop, with no farther delay from Miss Bates than, "How do you do, Mrs. Ford? I beg your pardon. I did not see you before. I hear you have a charming collection of new ribbons from town. Jane came back delighted yesterday. Thank ye, the gloves do very well—only a little too large about the wrist; but Jane is taking them in. " " What was I talking of?" said she, beginning again when they were all in the street. Emma wondered on what, of all the medley, she would fix. " I declare I cannot recollect what I was talking of.—Oh! my mother's spectacles. So very obliging of Mr. Frank Churchill! ' Oh!' said he, 'I do think I can fasten the rivet; I like a job of this kind excessively. '— As you know, he proved to be so remarkable that, although I had heard much about him and held certain expectations, he far exceeds everything I had imagined—congratulations, Mrs. Weston, most warmly. He seems every thing the fondest parent could.... 'Oh!' said he, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of that sort excessively.' I never shall forget his manner. And when I brought out the baked apples from the closet, and hoped our friends would be so very obliging as to take some, 'Oh!' said he directly, 'there is nothing in the way of fruit half so good, and these are the finest-looking home-baked apples I ever saw in my life.' That, you know, was so very.... And I am sure, by his manner, it was no compliment. Indeed, they are very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice—but we haven’t baked them more than twice, even though Mr. Woodhouse had us promise to bake them three times; Miss Woodhouse will be so kind as to refrain from mentioning it. The apples themselves are the very finest sort for baking, beyond a doubt; all from Donwell—some of Mr. Knightley's most liberal supply. He sends us a sack every year; and certainly there never was such a keeping apple anywhere as one of his trees—I believe there is two of them. My mother says the orchard was always famous in her younger days. I was shocked the other day when Mr. Knightley called, Jane was eating the apples, we praised how much she enjoyed them, and he asked whether our supply was nearly exhausted. I am sure you must be,' said he, 'and I will send you another supply; for I have a great many more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a larger quantity than usual this year. I will send you some more, before they get good for nothing.' I begged him not to—our apples were practically gone, with only a half‑dozen left—and insisted that everything be kept for Jane, for I could not bear the thought of him sending us more, however generous as he had already been; Jane felt the same. When he had gone, she almost quarreled with me—though we had never been at odds—because she was distressed that I had admitted the apples were almost gone, wishing instead that I had convinced him we still had plenty left. Oh, said I, my dear, I did say as much as I could. However, that same evening William Larkins arrived with a large basket of apples—at least a bushel of the same sort—and I was very much obliged; I went downstairs to speak with him about everything, as you may guess. William Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I am always glad to see him. Later, Patty told me that William had said his master had already used every apple of that sort, leaving none left to bake or boil. William seemed unconcerned; he was delighted that his master had sold so many, for William cares more about his master’s profit than anything else. However, Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite displeased that they had all been sent away. She could not bear that her master should not be able to have another apple-tart this spring. | Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; he told them that Mr Willoughby had no country property of his own, residing there only while visiting the old lady at Allenham Court to whom he was related and whose possessions he was to inherit—adding, “Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a small estate of his own in Somersetshire besides, and if I were you I would not give him up to my younger sister in spite of all this tumbling down hills.” Miss Marianne should not expect to attract every man herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care. " " "I don't think," said Mrs. Dashwood with a gentle smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be disturbed by either of my daughters’ attempts to win his affections." It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I’m delighted to hear from you that he is a respectable young man, and that it would be entirely proper to become acquainted with him. Sir John repeated, “He is, I think, the best sort of fellow that has ever lived.” I remember last Christmas, at a brief fête in the park, he danced from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon without ever taking a seat. Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit? " " Yes, and by eight he was up again, ready to ride out to Covert. That’s the sort of young man I admire; that’s exactly what a gentleman should be. Whatever his pursuits may be, his enthusiasm should be boundless, leaving him no sense of fatigue. “Aye, aye,” Sir John said, “I see how it will be.” “You should set your sights on him now and stop worrying about poor Brandon.” "That expression, Sir John, is one I especially dislike," Marianne said warmly. I detest clichéd phrases designed to flaunt wit—phrases like “to set one’s cap at a man” or “to make a conquest” are especially repugnant. Their approach is crude and unrefined; even if their design had once been regarded as clever, time has long ago erased all traces of its ingenuity. Sir John barely grasped the rebuke, yet he laughed heartily as if he had, and replied, “Ay, you’ll make plenty of conquests, I dare say, one way or another.” Poor Brandon! He’s already quite smitten, and despite all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles, he’s very well worth setting your cap at, I assure you. Like Margaret, Marianne’s guardian—more elegant than precise—addressed Willoughby and visited the cottage early the next morning to conduct his personal enquiries. Mrs. Dashwood received him with a warm politeness that went beyond mere courtesy—her kindness was inspired by Sir John’s glowing account of him and her own gratefulness; every moment of the visit only deepened the sense of mutual affection, elegance, and home‑like comfort that their accidental meeting had introduced into the family. He was already won over by their charms, needing no second interview to be convinced. Miss Dashwood carried a complexion so delicate it seemed almost translucent, features laid out in regular, harmonious proportions, and a figure that was remarkably pretty. Marianne was still handsomer. Her figure—though less impeccably poised than her sister’s—was more striking because of her greater height, and her face was so lovely that when people, in the usual flattery, called her a beautiful girl, the compliment was almost wholly accurate. Her skin was a deep brown, yet its translucence made her complexion astonishingly radiant; her features were harmonious; her smile was sweet and inviting; and in her very dark eyes shone a lively spirit and eager gleam that delighted the beholder. Initially, they held back their expression toward Willoughby, embarrassed by the recollection of his assistance. Once those distractions faded and she had gathered herself, she was struck by the gentleman’s impeccably good breeding, which was balanced with frankness and vivacity, and above all by his passionate declaration of love for music and dancing. In response, she gave him a look of approbation so approving that he devoted the bulk of his conversation to her for the rest of his stay. All she needed was to bring up one of her favorite amusements to spark a conversation. She could not keep her voice hushed when those points surfaced, nor did she exhibit any hint of shyness or reserve in the dialogue. They soon realized that both of them equally enjoyed dancing and music, and that this mutual pleasure stemmed from a shared sense of taste in all matters concerning either. Motivated to learn more about his tastes, she asked him about books, citing her favourite authors and talking of them with such rapturous delight that even a twenty‑five‑year‑old could not resist becoming an instant convert to their excellence, despite any previous neglect. Their taste was strikingly alike. They idolized exactly the same books and passages, and even when differences surfaced, any objections faded quickly once her persuasive arguments and radiant eyes took hold. He yielded to every one of her suggestions, matched her enthusiasm, and before the visit had even reached its end, their conversation carried the easy familiarity of long‑time friends. “Well, Marianne,” Elinor observed as he left, “I think you handled that morning quite well.” You’ve already learned Mr. Willoughby’s views on virtually every important matter. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you can be sure he appreciates their merits as he should, and he has assured you that his admiration of Pope is just right. But how can your acquaintance endure given the extraordinary flurry of topics for discussion? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting should suffice to explain his sentiments about picturesque beauty and second marriages, after which you will have nothing further to ask. Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have strayed from every conventional sense of decorum, being candid and sincere where restraint and propriety would have been more fitting; had I spoken only of the weather and the road, and only once every ten minutes, this reproach might have been avoided. "My dear," her mother said, "don't be offended by Elinor—she was only joking." I would scold her myself if she were capable of trying to dampen the pleasure of your conversation with our new friend. Marianne was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his part, demonstrated his pleasure at their acquaintance, clearly expressing a desire to deepen it. He came to them every day. Initially, he used inquiring after Marianne as an excuse, but as the kindness of his welcome grew more generous each day, that excuse became unnecessary long before it ceased to be possible—thanks to Marianne’s full recovery. She was locked away in the house for several days, and yet no confinement had ever been so irksome. Willoughby was a young man of notable talents, a quick and vivid imagination, a spirited temperament, and warm, affectionate manners. He was exactly the right kind of man to win Marianne's heart: his captivating presence, coupled with a natural ardour that was stirred and heightened by her own example, made him the one who secured her affection above all else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, talked, and sang together; his musical talent was considerable, and his readings were imbued with the sensibility and spirit that Edward had unfortunately lacked. Mrs. Dashwood judged him as flawless as Marianne did, and Elinor saw no fault in him save a habit—one he shared and which pleased her sister—of speaking too freely whatever he thought on every occasion, without regard for people or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. | 0.8 | Young women -- Fiction | Austen, Jane | Austen, Jane | 158 | 161 | Austen, Jane_[Emma]_1500_53_0.2 | Austen, Jane_[Sense and Sensibility]_1500_10_0.7 |
"Arthur, why didn't you give me a hint? What bizarre obsession does Cl audia indulge in? Did you hear that she calls herself a landscape gardener? He frowned. " Has she returned to that nonsense? I thought it had reached its conclusion. Although, be advised, her serious approach to her duties was surprisingly engaging. She didn’t plan to turn in any other direction. Absurd! And you encouraged it?" " That was the only means to reach her. Besides, I knew that once I made her care, I could stop it, and I have indeed stopped it—unless you’ve rubbed her the wrong way again. How did you come across it? Helen Arbuthnot hinted at the Thornbury trees. Mrs. Leslie, impatient, said, “I can’t fathom why Helen has come here now.” “I wish she’d married and put that chapter behind her.” Fenwick made no answer. Possibly he had not heard. The march past was a dazzling spectacle that thrilled the camp’s visitors. Royalty had assembled—indeed, a gathering of nobles was present; the day was perfect, neither too hot nor too cool, with fluffy clouds draping gentle shadows over the downs. At the Foxhills the scene unfolded in its familiar pattern: the routine manoeuvres, a futile thirst for details about what would happen, and a pervasive ignorance; husbands worried that their wives might get in the way and halt a regiment; the usual thrill came from pointing out distant puffs of smoke or gleaming metal; the balloon was captured, yet the dust was not quite as plentiful as it normally was. Claudia, eager and alert, had finally returned to her usual self—more so than she had since arriving at Aldershot—keenly engaged and oddly too delighted to discover that Fenwick’s battery was on the triumphant side. Then came the stirring march past: artillery wagons lumbered along, cheerful regimental bands played, pipes skirred, and amid the proud, defiant strains of “The Campbells are comin,” the Argyll Highlanders swung by in splendid, barbaric dress, like a company of giants. Claudia’s eyes glittered brightly, and she barely registered her companion’s criticisms. Fenwick’s battery moved past early; after it had left, he returned to the foremost row where his sister and Claudia were standing, for the girl had become so swept up that she refused to stay in the carriage. He gazed at her bright, lively face with approving pleasure. "You shouldn’t have come this far,” he muttered, turning his gaze toward his sister. You would have seen it far clearer on the Duke’s other side. But Mrs Leslie demurred. " Colonel Manson urged us to come here, and nothing could have been more pleasant. There, we should have had horses all around us. Well, they wouldn’t have harmed you. Join me right away, and watch it all the way through to the end. Why should we? Stay here, Claudia. From higher up, you won’t get such a good view. She felt the same way, yet she decided to leave. As soon as, however, Fenwick reached the coveted spot, he noticed its shortcomings and complained about the dust and glare. Claudia laughed. " She suggested, “Let’s go somewhere else.” I don't mind. " " The best has passed, so there’s nothing to enjoy about dragging it out to the very end. I’d like to talk to Lucas over there about his pony. Is that the polo player? Yes." " Are you going to join the polo match? Not unlikely. If I go for it, I’ll do it thoroughly, and he’s the only pony I fancy. I don't believe he would be willing to part with it. So they say. " Something in his tone hinted that the attraction was born out of the difficulty. They walked across the broken ground to the spot where young Lucas stood, and he laughed off the suggestion with scorn. Sell Tommy!" he said. " My dear fellow, I have no idea whether I know it. Well, if you do that, I won’t. I will have to be completely broke first. Fenwick kept going, heedless—“Let me have the refusal.” Oh, as for that, all right! If the worst happens and I need to flee, I’ll tell you that Tommy is yours. Will that suit you?" " Down to the ground. " Both men laughed; as Claudia and Fenwick walked away, she remarked, “I fear you’ll have to endure another pony.” Not I!" he returned. " It's Tommy or none. I shall secure him at last. She glanced curiously at him. " Do you ever get everything you desire? Pretty generally. When I put my mind to it. “And,” she said slowly, “do you truly care about it once you have it?” Instead, she chose not to wait for an answer. "Look," she said, "with all the carriages on the move, it must be over." I’m sorry, but it has indeed been delightful. He didn’t answer for a full minute. Then he suddenly asked, “Who’s the man with the Thorntons?” Gertrude fancied that Mr Pelham was the most likely person. What an ass the fellow looks like! To this she made no answer. Fenwick, silent and abrupt, escorted her to Mrs. Leslie and then sent her off to ride back to Aldershot. That evening was the Thorntons' dinner, and Claudia, who plumed herself upon her powers of independent decision, found herself swept away by Mrs Leslie. What are you going to wear?" she asked. " It had better be the green. I'm certain Arthur would choose the green. She wore green, even as she berated herself with harsh words while dressing. All that’s left is to tuck a white camellia into my hair and step forward, blush‑soft and sigh‑gentle among my ringlets. Who decides what I wear? Why do I give way? Why can't I hold my own? Claudia, Claudia, has your lovely array of theories finally come to an end? Then, an anguished question burst from her—one she had been postponing, fearing that once it formed it might be unanswerable—“Does he care?” Does he really care? He pressed me into love even when I resisted, and yet if he wasn’t certain of himself, why was he so cruel? If I were certain of his feelings, would I care one bit about his sister's domineering ways? Not I! I could stand my ground against her, wear whatever pleased me, say whatever I wanted, do whatever I cherished, no matter how many in‑laws the world might offer. Yet she now holds me at a disadvantage, fully aware of it. He stands behind her, and when she says, “Arthur prefers this, Arthur chooses that,” all my resistance evaporates, leaving me a trembling coward. I believe she knows best, so I should heed her advice, yet I feel utterly out of place. Ever since I arrived here, I have felt like a stranger to myself, a mere imitation, even a fragile version of the girl I once despised—a pitiful creature I never imagined I could become. We laughed at them so often back at college. If only the girls could see me now, how sharply would they laugh. I fear that I shouldn’t even be bothered by their laughter. I feel I’ve fallen so low that I no longer have any self‑respect, and I know that if I were truly confident in my own heart, I would give up everything I love—everything—for him, just as he had pushed me to say I could. If only I could be convinced that he feels the same now that he once did. And perhaps he does. Maybe I merely don't quite understand it. Perhaps this is simply part of me turning into a foolish girl. Perhaps all men—nice men—are the same. Certainly, I should hate that he gives him so much attention—being overly effusive and silly. I reckon it's merely a foolish fancy of mine. Proceed with your green dress, foolish Claudia, and, for the sake of pity, view things with a healthy outlook rather than plunging into morbid fantasies. She sighed as she finished, though no self‑harangue could have seemed wiser. Resolute, she carried out her plans, bearing Mrs Leslie’s remarks about her dress without flinching and trying to be content with the young subaltern who had taken his place at dinner. Fenwick was paired with Miss Arbuthnot, while Mr Pelham sat beside Miss Arbuthnot with Mrs Thornton. Claudia even forced herself to believe that the arrangement was truly her own choice, so that she could watch what the others were doing. She was curious to know whether the story of Helen's engagement was true. | " "Please, miss, I am not offended; I would take a'most anything from any friend of yours; it's quite nat'ral as they should hate and despise me for sitting here a-keeping guard over an innocent creetur like you; sure I often hates and despises myself, and I wonder you don't too," said Mrs. Barton, putting her apron to her eyes and beginning to cry. Annella wheeled around, examined the woman closely, and, with a sudden outstretched hand, said, “I beg your pardon—I do, indeed, sincerely.” I should not have spoken as I did, for I am not good, have never been, and shall never be; when my heart bleeds, my temper flares and my tongue runs wild. "No offence, Miss, as I said earlier; I can’t help but wonder why she harbours no grave hatred or disdain for me," said Mrs. Barton, wiping her eyes and sighing. Annella, who had been staring at Mrs. Barton with keen interest, rose—her face pallid, limbs trembling, breath quick and gasp‑laden—and whispered, “You called Miss Leaton innocent.” Do you really think that’s the case for her? Yes, I do; I would not believe otherwise if every archbishop, bishop, priest, and deacon in the kingdom were to declare her guilty and offer her the sacrament, said the woman earnestly. "Therefore, you must recognize how cruel it is that she is destined to endure suffering," declared Annella, her voice tinged with zeal. It’s martyrdom—that’s what it is. Hush! listen!" Annella, bending low, continued, “Would you like to see her free from this place, wouldn’t you?” Oh, wouldn't I though! Certainly, I pray for her deliverance every night and every morning while kneeling—sobbed Mrs. Barton. And would you help her escape if a sound plan were laid and it would be entirely safe for you? Annella whispered in a hushed, breathless tone as she asked. Eh?" " If you could do it safely without endangering yourself, you would conspire in her escape, wouldn’t you? Eh? What? I don’t understand you, but I would do anything in the world to help her. Sure, she knows it even without me telling her. Well, then, listen! Hold on—what hours are you on duty with her? From six a.m. to noon, and again from six p.m. to midnight. If I returned tomorrow morning while you were on duty, could you perhaps pretend to fall asleep, turn your back, and let me change clothes with her so she could slip out disguised as me? Eh! What! I’m sorry, Miss.
Why? Lord, Miss, I cannot. Don’t worry—you’re not at risk of any consequences; nothing will harm you. “You might be suspected, but you could not be convicted, because no one could prove that fatigue did not cause you to fall asleep; consequently, the worst that could happen to you would be losing your post, for I doubt they would keep a female warder prone to dozing off on duty.” However, Mrs. Barton, any loss you might suffer will be recompensed a hundredfold. “Never mind that, Miss; I’m not afraid of anything except doing wrong.” I refuse to let her escape. Assisting the innocent in evading an undeserved death would be a meritorious act. Miss, I could comply under certain circumstances; but when I assumed this post, I pledged to obey the law and to safeguard the prisoners under my charge. "So I refuse to break my word or betray my trust, Miss—no, not even to save her precious life, for seeing her suffer breaks my heart," she said, lifting her apron over her face and beginning to cry again. Would you accept it if I offered you five hundred pounds—perhaps even a thousand? "I won't accept it unless you offer me ten thousand, Miss," she sobbed. Annella, speaking with a flourish, urged, “Look at Eudora; if you won’t let her go, then simply watch her.” Mrs. Barton lowered her apron and fixed her gaze on the prisoner, who sat by her bed with her head bowed, flushed cheeks, lips slightly apart, eyes strained outward, and hands clasped and extended in a silent, eloquent plea for freedom. I cannot bear to look at her; it shatters my heart into two. Mrs. Barton sobbed, her hands once more pulling her face into her sheltering arms. Eudora, spurred on by an abrupt impulse, leapt forward, grasping her warder’s hand and shouting: Listen to my friend! Allow me to depart if I can, and grant me this single, fragile hope for life. I have only one week left to live, after which I’ll face a dreadful death. Oh, pity me! let me go! " " Oh, this is dreadful—dreadful! "I would do anything for you, poor child, but I dare not— I cannot betray my trust," she replied, weeping wildly. Had I been your child, you would let me go—risking your own salvation to set me free—and if I had a mother, she would move heaven and earth to save me, yet I am motherless. Pity me as if I were your child and let me go. I will not; Lord, help me—I won’t. Even if I did, dear, it wouldn’t save you; you’d still be found and taken back before you could slip past the prison gates. Look, yes; before you even reached the top of the stairs of this ward, your situation would have been worse than it is now. It couldn’t be any worse; and even if the chance is infinitesimal, it still exists. “Oh, grant me this small, tender chance of life!” I do not deserve to meet such a terrible end. I’d choose to die right now rather than deny you. I mustn't be a traitor. Sure, you wouldn't have me go against my conscience? Without another word, Eudora turned, sank onto the bed, let her clasped hands fall to her lap, pressed her pale face against her chest, and adopted a posture of mingled shame and resignation. "How could you possibly be so heartless and cruel?" exclaimed Annella. " "I'm not so, Miss; on the contrary, it almost breaks my heart to refuse her, yet I must still do my duty," sobbed Mrs. Barton, pulling her apron over her eyes once more. "Oh, tarnish your duty!" exclaimed Annella, her voice crackling with indignation. That word hits me like a dose of tartar emetic, for I believe that far more sin has been committed in the name of duty than ever has been wrought by any devil from Moloch down through the depths of Pandemonium. I am not as ancient as the North Star, yet throughout my life I have seen that when people are about to commit acts so outrageously wicked or shamefully mean that even Satan would blush, they justify them under the pretense of duty. Well, duty is no less sacred nor incumbent upon us on that account. Many evil deeds have been committed in the name of the Most High, yet that does not diminish our worship of the Divine Name. Oh, Miss, I hope you don’t think I’m hypocritical for behaving wickedly and cruelly in the name of duty. Mrs. Barton, still sobbing, asked. No, I am convinced you acted with integrity in refusing to aid my escape. I was the one who erred. I should not have appealed to you, nor tried to sway your feelings, nor tested your loyalty. However, swept up by emotion, I lost my sense of self and yielded to the impulse of the moment. Eudora let out a deep sigh and said, “The temptation swelled within me—death tasted bitter, yet life felt overwhelmingly sweet.” Oh, how can you be so cruel as to still refuse to let her go? “Even if it were wrong, you might err a little for the sake of mercy and to save her from perishing,” pleaded Annella. Refrain from tempting her further, dear. "God is omnipotent; if He wills it, He can deliver me, but tempting His creatures does not earn His favor," Eudora said. "That's all, Miss; do what is right and trust that He can save even at the eleventh hour," said Mrs. Barton, wiping her eyes. And now listen; I hear the other warder coming. | 0.4 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Peard, Frances M. (Frances Mary) | Nevitt, Dorothy Emma Eliza | 43152 | 69675 | Peard, Frances M. (Frances Mary)_[The Career of Claudia]_1500_28_0.7 | Nevitt, Dorothy Emma Eliza_[Allworth Abbey]_1500_64_0.8 |
" Like living sword-blades did the Rutharian zinds answer that fierce appeal. The circle grew smaller and drew in upon itself, but it did not break. Under their resistless blades the zinds piled a rampart of dead Maeronicans to defend their goddess. A riderless horse backed into the circle, and Polaris, quitting Glorian's side, mounted the steed with his two-handed steel and joined the zinds. Standing up on the body of Polaris's fallen war-horse, supporting herself with one hand on the staff of the banner, Glorian watched that deadly fray. With her long hair flowing on her shoulders, she looked in her warlike gear like one of the valkyries of Adin come down to earth from Valhalla to watch the passing of the souls of heroes. Ever her gaze followed Polaris. And if she seemed like one of the Norse god's daughters, the man who fought under her eyes was a fitting part of the simile. His sword wrenched from his grasp in the body of a man he had slain, he snatched the heavy ax that swung at his saddle-bow, and with it laid on like Thor with his hammer. Aid was coming. Down the field as he rode Albar spread the tidings. From mouth to mouth flew the word that the Goddess Glorian was on the plains of Nor, and that she and the king were in sore peril yonder where the red standard flew. The effect was instantaneous. Each warrior became a host in himself. Wounded men who had turned to the rear heard and forgot their hurts and staggered into the fight again. When Albar reached Oleric the Red on the right, the zind found that his news had preceded him. "Get you to Maxtan," shouted Oleric. "Charge with every horse that can bear a rider. A messenger has gone into the forests, and another charge is coming. Clear the way for the amalocs. " Maxtan and Albar gathered their wild horsemen and charged and charged again. So well did they do their work that they hacked a way to the first rank of the Maeronican chariots, deep between the two horns of which was waging the struggle around the red banner. Vainly Oleric urged his own charioteers forward. Bel-Ar's blood was up, and he was smiling no longer. Battalion on battalion of his infantry he sent in to meet the steeds and feed the blades of Ruthar. Almost within his grasp the Maeronican king saw victory. Already he counted as taken the slave whom his foeman had crowned. Sooner than give back a foot, or allow that little band of riders to go free, he was prepared to spend his army to the last man, and himself with it. No less than three horses Oleric had killed under him. When the last was gone, he climbed into a chariot and fought at the point of his rumbling wedge. Behind him from the forests a force entered the plain and the conflict that was mightier than all the red captain's horsemen and battalions. Zoar had come. In the shadow of the tall trees where the bending limbs swept their mighty backs, Zoar marshaled thirty of his amalocs and set them in battle array—a single line, with twenty intervening feet between each beast. If Zoar knew aught of amalocs, and he thought that he did, there would be need for no second line. A hundred men and as many horses ran about the legs of the monsters, tightening the broad girths that held the basketlike turrets on the mammoths' shoulders. The beasts stood quietly, swinging their huge trunks and weaving from side to side, as was their habit. Occasionally one of them cocked forward a great blanket of an ear as though in lazy wonderment at the din on the plains. On the head of each, with his back to the turret, and clutching his keen-pointed ankus, sat a driver in full armor. When all was ready, the spear-throwers and archers clambered up by rope-ladders and took their places in the towers. At the left of the line, and nearest to the river, was Ixstus, patriarch and giant of the herd. And on the broad head of Ixstus beside the driver rode Zoar of the many years. Along the line from beast to beast passed the word: "We are ready, Father Zoar. " "Ixstus!" said the old man. The sail-like ears gave attention. "Ixstus, I have raised you since a calf, and I think you love me after your fashion. Do not fail me now, Ixstus. Go forward, fearing nothing. _Akko dor! " Zoar's last words were spoken loudly. Thirty vast trunks lifted up. From thirty huge proboscides pealed forth the amaloc trumpet-call—such a call as might have shaken the forests in the ages before the first puny man began his life of fear. For of amalocs the records of the Garden of Eden make no mention. Swaying their ponderous heads, and with the turrets on their shoulders heaving and tossing like boats on a troubled sea, the amalocs went forward. Far in the turmoil of the fight Oleric heard that trumpeting. Over his shoulder he looked and saw the mighty red bulk of Ixstus push out from among the trees. With their trunks curled out of harm's way, their thick and ropy tails stretched straight out behind, and their ears flapping to their stride, the amalocs came down the grim lanes of battle. Though the legs that were as the trunks of trees for size swung with no apparent haste, the beasts came on at a pace that it would have troubled a trotting horse to distance. The lengths of chain fastened to their knee-harness whistled through the air like flails. From division to division along Ruthar's jagged battle-line sped the warning cry: "Way! Way for Zoar! Make way for the amalocs! " Under the tossing ivory fronts the divisions parted and drew aside. Zoar increased the distance between his beasts. Into thirty wide aisles the army split. From forest to front, save for the dead, the way was clear. From the wild vortex of the battle rose a stormy burst of cheering as the amalocs thundered down the aisles, and Ruthar's exultant warriors welcomed their gigantic allies. Wilder still was the cheering when it was seen that at the ends of the pathways the phalanxes of Bel-Ar's men-at-arms were crumbling away. Flesh and blood could not abide the onset that was coming, and the Maeronican legions broke and fled ingloriously across the plains in droves, many of them casting away their arms and shields as they ran. Bidding his charioteer pull in his horses, Oleric climbed up on the high front of his chariot to watch how Bel-Ar would meet this new stroke. What would meet the drive of the amalocs? As he reached his vantage-point, the answer came—a cavalry charge! From the wall of his camp, where he had been taken, nursing an arm that was numb from wrist to shoulder, the Maeronican king ground his teeth in fury as he saw the new force enter the battle and witnessed the melting of his legions. Once before, in the morning, his cavalry had been rudely handled, and he had laughed. Now, with tears of rage in his eyes, he dispatched his shattered squadrons in the teeth of the oncoming peril. White-faced captains and quaking men scrambled into their saddles to do their king's bidding, and the horsemen rode desperately to meet the beasts. What happened was simple. The amalocs plowed through the clouds of cavalry that opposed them with scarcely a break in their stride, overthrowing men and horses as though they had been of paper, and leaving ghastly ruins behind them where their ponderous feet had trodden. One such onset was enough. No horse that ever lived could have been forced to face another. For the amalocs, when they joined battle, set up such a din of squealing and trumpeting as nearly split the ears that heard it. The horse that could have met that grievous onslaught must have been both blind and deaf. From above, in the basket-turrets, the archers and spearsmen poured down a deadly hail of missiles on the riders. Did a horseman avoid the thrashing chains and get near enough to the vast side of an amaloc to strike—and not many did so—he found his spear-point rebound from the tough hide. The utmost power of his stroke was not a pin-prick to an amaloc. Even as the swordsmen had fled, so fled now the riders, betaking themselves in a fear-maddened stream to their camp, whither the charioteers had preceded them. "The beasts of Ruthar are a myth," had said Bel-Ar, the king. | Each of the faithful creatures was deep in a nest of snow, with only a tiny hole to breathe through. The beasts were gaunt with hunger, and whined and slavered at the mouth while the policeman began digging out the supplies. It took several hours of hard work to dig out the camp, and when everything was in good shape, Corporal McCarthy drew the boys aside: "Constable Sloan and myself are going back on the glacier with ten days' supplies to see if we can't pick up Mistak's trail again. We'll leave you with Sipsa to take care of the camp and do some hunting. Sipsa will show you how to kill and cut up seals and walruses, which we'll need for dog meat if we don't have to eat them ourselves before we finish our job up here. Don't overlook the musk-oxen. We saw signs of them on the island and they're about the best eating a white man can find up here. " "Suppose we see Mistak. What do you want us to do?" "Lay low and keep out of trouble," cautioned the policeman. "We'll be back in ten days at least and whatever you've discovered about Mistak's whereabouts we'll put to good use. " The policemen soon had a sledge of supplies and one dog team ready for the trail. Waving farewell to the boys they started out, disappearing up the long slope that led to the glacier. In one way Dick and Sandy were glad to be free to command their own movements, yet again, with the experienced policemen gone, the vast frozen land presented an even more sinister appearance. A hundred forebodings surged up in the breasts of Dick and Sandy, but they manfully fought them down, preparing immediately to go seal hunting. Sipsa had brought along several harpoons, and he began working on these diligently. He made the boys understand by signs that he was not yet ready to go seal hunting, and they left him alone after growing tired of watching the Eskimo's deft fingers manipulating a whetting stone. Dick suggested that they go down to the sea shore, and all three of the boys set off in that direction. They found the tide rising, and for half an hour amused themselves by skipping stones across the shallow water, and throwing at the small ice cakes floating farther out. Dick and Toma were about tied at hitting their mark, but Sandy was far the more expert at skipping stones. The Scotch lad could skip a choice flat stone as far again as he could throw it, and though Dick and Toma tried again and again to equal Sandy's prowess, they finally were forced to give up, so tired were their arms. "Let's walk along the shore a ways," said Dick. "We may find something interesting. " A hundred yards farther on they passed out of sight of the camp, and ran into a flock of eider ducks who took to the water upon their approach with the prettiest nose dives they had ever seen. Toma's sharp eyes located some nests on the shore, and they procured a few fresh eggs and a good many old ones. "Leave the old eggs where they are," Dick said, as Sandy was about to see how far he could throw one. "We don't want to destroy what will be little eider ducks some day. " "You're right, Dick," Sandy agreed. "I just didn't think. " "Him nice an' soft—make um warm nest," Toma spoke up, running his fingers around in one of the duck nests. Dick picked up some of the fine, white feathers with which the nest was lined. "Yes, these are about as soft feathers as are known. The Eskimos gather and trade them to the white men for tools and things. In the United States we call it eiderdown. " They wandered on down the shore to the point where the great glacial ridge west of their camp extended into the sea. The ridge sloped off into the water in a long slope at the foot of which the waves rumbled and thundered, dashing the huge icebergs this way and that as if they were toys. Occasionally they could hear the distant noises of the glacier as fragments of it fell into the sea, or when its slow movements caused huge cracks to form in its depths. Dick led the way a short distance up the slope toward a dark knob that was sticking up through the snow and ice. "I wonder if that isn't one of the meteors they say are in the polar regions," he said. "Robert Peary, the great explorer, brought back some fine specimens to American museums. This does look like it might be a very small one. " They stopped at the protuberance and inspected it curiously. "It looks like melted iron to me," Sandy declared. "Is that what meteors are made of?" "Yes, a form of iron," Dick replied. "It's called meteoric iron. Scientists claim it is about the hardest iron which has been found in a natural state. In the sky it is heated to a liquid state by the friction of falling through the air, then when it strikes the earth's atmosphere it cools suddenly and explodes with a loud report, lighting up the country for miles and miles. " "Why do more meteors fall in the polar regions than in the other zones?" inquired Sandy, meditatively fingering the meteoric rock. "I don't remember having read the exact reason, and I'm not sure that more do fall up here, but if there are more it must be because the atmosphere is so much colder. The meteors explode much higher in the sky, then lose their velocity and so fall to the earth's surface near the pole. " "Well, the glacier seems to have pushed this meteor up here," said Sandy, "so there's no telling where it actually fell. " "That's true," replied Dick, "but say, this big stone gives me an idea. Let's gather some big rocks and build a monument here, leaving some kind of record inside of it. That's the way all the Arctic explorers did. They called them cairns. " Sandy and Toma quickly showed how enthusiastic they were by starting to gather stones of a good size. These they built up in a solid circle near the meteor until they had an erection about a foot high. "Now for the record," said Dick, and drew from his pocket a small calendar with which he had been keeping track of the days. Sandy dug down in the ample pockets of his caribou hide shirt and found a soft-nosed rifle cartridge. With a hunting knife they trimmed this to a point, improvising a crude lead pencil. Then on the back of the card board that had supported the calendar leaves, Dick wrote under the day and year: "We are on an uncharted island, a few hundred miles west of Greenland, near the Arctic Circle. This is the farthest north we have ever been in the service of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, or the Hudson's Bay Company. If something happens and we never return, anyone who reads this will know just about where we were when we disappeared. " Under this, all three of the boys proudly signed their names, Toma painfully inscribing his to the accompaniment of a twisting tongue, which he chewed industriously at every move of the pencil. When the record was finished Dick folded it carefully and stowed it in the center of the cairn, placing a heavy stone upon it. Then they gathered more stones and built up the cairn to a height of about five feet, rounding it off nicely at the top, forming a receptacle for the record that would stand for years and years. "It's about time we were getting back to camp the way my stomach feels," Dick said when they had finished, and were standing off at a distance appraising their handiwork. Sandy's and Toma's stomachs seemed to agree perfectly with Dick's and so they started off on the back trail, glancing over their shoulders every now and then at the cairn. By the time they reached camp their appetites had grown immensely, and they voiced the hope that Sipsa would have something prepared to eat. But there was no smell of hot tea or frying meat. In fact, as they approached they could see no sign whatever of the Eskimo guide. "He must be in one of the igloos," Dick hazarded. But a search of the igloos disclosed no Sipsa. The boys shouted his name, but only a faint echo from the wall of the ridge answered them. | 0 | Adventure stories | Stilson, Charles B. (Charles Billings) | Milton Richards | 67121 | 50816 | Stilson, Charles B. (Charles Billings)_[Polaris and the Goddess Glorian]_1500_47 | Milton Richards_[S.O.S. Aphrodite!]_1500_12 |
" Linda's confidence, however, was sadly misplaced. For no one at the studio called to inform her that the other girl landed her plane right on the set a little after three o'clock. With the neatness of a born flier, she brought her plane to the ground, climbed out of the cockpit and strolled into Mr. Von Goss's office. The director had not yet returned, but Sprague was sitting at his desk. In a few words he explained the situation, but before the girl could make any reply, Mr. Von Goss walked in. "You've heard the story, Miss—Carlton?" he asked, hesitating a little over the name. The girl, who really resembled Linda to a remarkable degree, laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm used to things like that," she said. "It used to worry me at first, but I never pay any attention to them now. Why, Mr. Von Goss, you can see for yourself how absurd the claim is! The girl's real name—Sallie Slocum—has been printed in the newspaper twice. " "Yes, of course that's true. But how about those license cards?" "Your detective will soon prove them counterfeits. And the signatures forged. " Still, the man hesitated. "The other girl said something about taking a test. Said she was the only licensed mechanic in the country. That made it sound pretty genuine to me. " Again the girl laughed. "That was a clever ruse," she said. "But probably Miss Slocum has passed that test since I did, and thinks she knows more than I would.... No, Mr. Von Goss, I haven't time to fool around here taking tests. I've got to be on my way tomorrow. So if you want me in the picture, you'll have to let me go through my stunts now. " "I don't see how it can be done—" began the director. "Very well, then," agreed the girl. "I'd better give you back your check, because I'm really too busy to wait around here. After all, the money doesn't mean much to me—and I don't need the publicity! " Mr. Von Goss looked at her keenly. She must be the real Linda, he thought, or she certainly wouldn't talk like this. It never occurred to him that she was acting. "No—I don't want to give up now. We'll go through with your part of the show.... Sprague, get the people on the wire.... And so, while Linda and Dot were patiently waiting for their telephone call at the hotel, the impostor almost completed her part in the picture, promising to return for only a couple of hours' work in the morning. "Good morning, Miss Slocum ," said Mr. Sprague, smugly, as Linda and Dot entered the studio at Culver City the following day. Linda winced at the name, and looked around her, to see whether another girl could be entering at the same time. But there was no one except a strange young man sitting in the corner, who couldn't possibly be "Miss Slocum." The secretary was evidently giving her a dig; perhaps he was trying to trap her by calling her by the name which Dot had manufactured on the spur of the moment at Kansas City, and which had been repeated by the newspapers. "Trying to be funny, Mr. Sprague?" inquired Dot, scathingly. The stranger in the corner arose from his seat. "This is Mr. Bertram Chase, of the police," Sprague announced, calmly. "Miss Slocum and Miss Manton. " The girls regarded the young man questioningly. He was in plain clothes—not an ordinary policeman. "A detective," explained Sprague, simply. Dot became impatient; she wanted to get to the point of their visit. "We should like to meet the aviatrix who calls herself Linda Carlton," she announced, in a business-like tone. "Has she come in yet?" "She is on the set now," replied Sprague. "Going through her stunts. She has only a small part in the picture, so it can all be done at once. " "Will you kindly take us out where she is?" asked Linda. "In a minute, sister," returned the man, condescendingly. "But we have some business with you first. " Linda's expression became freezing. She could not bear this insolent young man. He smiled in an irritating manner. "We have examined your licenses, Miss Slocum," he said. "And we believe the signatures have been forged. The real Miss Carlton brought hers today, and we compared the two. There is no doubt that hers is genuine." "What?" demanded Linda, in horror. "Let us see them!" demanded Dot, entirely unconvinced. Mr. Sprague nodded. "Our friend, Mr. Chase, has them now. He will let you look at them. " The young man, who could not have been a day over twenty-five, looked extremely embarrassed. Not like a hard-boiled detective at all, Linda thought. Indeed, he flashed her a look of sympathy, as if he did not share in Sprague's accusation. Still, it was his business, and he had to go through with it. He fumbled in his pockets and produced two cards, identical at a glance. The same numbers, the same printing—and what looked like the same signatures. "Don't let them out of your hands, Chase," warned Sprague, evidently determined to be as nasty as possible. "You see, ladies," Chase said, almost apologetically. "This signature is forged." He held up one of the cards. "Look at the capital 'L'. It hasn't been copied quite right. " "Of course it hasn't!" cried Dot. "But the other one is yours, Linda. " "Yes," agreed Linda, trembling in spite of her innocence, "I remember that mud-spot on mine. I got it on that treasure-hunt that Mr. Clavering planned, from Green Falls last summer. " "Odd," remarked Sprague, sarcastically. "That is the very mud-spot the real Miss Carlton identified her card by!" "What do you propose to do?" demanded Dot, now thoroughly exasperated. "Hold Miss Slocum under bail," replied Sprague. "For forgery. " Dot burst into a peal of laughter. "It's too absurd!" she exclaimed. The young detective looked exceedingly uncomfortable. "Shall we go out on the lot?" he suggested. "And see the stunts?" "O. K. by me," agreed Sprague. "Are we to wear hand-cuffs?" inquired Dot, flippantly. Sprague gave her a withering look. "You are not being held at all, Miss Manton," he said. "We're not concerned under what names you care to travel. " The young detective fell back and walked across the lots with the girls. "I believe you are innocent, Miss—Carlton," he said, his brown eyes already showing devotion to Linda. "Of course I have to take your money for bail, but I'm sure it will be all cleared up soon. I think that the other girl is the impostor. " "Oh, thank you, Mr. Chase!" cried Linda, the tears dangerously near to her eyes at this expression of sympathy. The group reached the lot, where the picture was being rehearsed. It looked so interesting, so thrilling,—had it been under any other circumstances, the girls would have only been too delighted at the opportunity. But now they could think only of the horrible fix they were in, with not a friend in this strange city to vindicate them. Mr. Von Goss, who was buzzing busily about the lot, paid no attention at all to Dot and Linda—not even a formal nod of greeting as he passed them by. He had evidently decided that they were impostors, who had cleverly deceived him, thereby securing for themselves an evening's unusual entertainment at his expense. Therefore, he preferred not to recognize them at all. The deliberate cut hurt Linda, for she had liked and admired the older man, and had found him exceedingly interesting. The moving-picture aviatrix, however, was going through all sorts of stunts in a silver Moth, which had been brightly painted and decorated. Linda stood still, gazing at her enviously. Not that she wanted to be in the picture, but she would always rather be in the air than on the ground. And it looked now as if she were to be chained to the earth for several days to come, unless she or Dot could think of a way out of their difficulties. "The girl's too low!" cried Chase suddenly, in horror. Linda watched her; she certainly was dangerously near to the ground. The roar of her motor was deafening. But, by a stroke of luck, she regained control, and abruptly pointed her plane upward, climbing without disaster. "She's good," admitted Linda, in all fairness. "Not so good as she looks," remarked Chase. "I happen to know that plane and it will take a lot of punishment. But she'll do that little stunt once too often. " "You're a flier too, Mr. Chase?" inquired Linda. "Yes," he replied. "I'm a secret-service man, on the air force of the police. | But Damase's persecutions showing no signs of ceasing, the poor lad's self-control began to desert him, and at last the crisis came one night when, while he was kneeling as usual at the foot of his bunk, Damase crept up softly behind him, and springing upon his shoulders, brought him sprawling to the floor. In an instant Frank was on his feet, and when the others saw his flashing and indignant countenance and noticed his tight-clinched fists, the roar of laughter that greeted his downfall was checked half way, and a sudden silence fell upon them. They all expected him to fly at his tormentor like a young tiger, and Damase evidently expected it too, for he stepped back a little, and his grinning face sobered as he assumed a defensive attitude. But Frank had no thought of striking. That was not his way of defending his religion, much as he was willing to endure rather than be unfaithful. Drawing himself up to his full height, and looking a splendid type of righteous indignation, he commanded the attention of all as in clear, strong tones, holding his sturdy fists close to his sides as though he dared not trust them elsewhere, and looking straight into Damase's eyes, lie exclaimed,— "Aren't you ashamed to do such an unmanly thing—you, who are twice my size and age? I have done nothing to you. Why should you torment me? And just when I want most to be quiet, too! " Then, turning to the other men with a gesture of appeal that was irresistible, he cried,— "Do you think it's fair, fellows, for that man to plague me so when I've done him no harm? Why don't you stop him? You can do it easy enough. He's nothing but a big coward. " Frank's anger had risen as he spoke, and this last sentence slipped out before he had time to stop it. No sooner was it uttered than he regretted it; but the bolt had been shot, and it went straight to its mark. While Frank had been speaking, Damase was too keen of sight and sense not to notice that the manly speech and fine self-control of the boy were causing a quick revulsion of feeling in his hearers, and that unless diverted they would soon be altogether on his side, and the taunt he had just flung out awoke a deep murmur of applause which was all that was needed to inflame his passion to the highest pitch. The Frenchman looked the very incarnation of fury as, springing towards Frank with uplifted fist, he hissed, rather cried, through his gleaming teeth,— "Coward! I teach you call me coward. " Stepping back a little, Frank threw up his arms in a posture of defence; for he was not without knowledge of what is so oddly termed "the noble art. " But before the blow fell an unlooked-for intervention relieved him from the danger that threatened. The foreman, when the shanty was being built, had the farther right-hand corner partitioned off so as to form a sort of cabin just big enough to contain his bunk, his chest, and a small rude table on which lay the books in which he kept his accounts and made memoranda, and some half-dozen volumes that constituted his library. In this nook, shut off from the observation and society of the others, yet able to overhear and, if he chose to open the door, to oversee also all that went on in the larger room, Johnston spent, his evenings poring over his books by the light of a tallow candle, the only other light in the room being that given forth by the ever-blazing fire. Owing to this separation from the others, Johnston had been unaware of the manner in which Frank had been tormented, as it was borne so uncomplainingly. But this time Frank's indignant speech, followed so fast by Damase's angry retort, told him plainly that there was need of his interference. He emerged from his corner just at the moment when Damase was ready to strike. One glance at the state of affairs was enough. Damase's back was turned toward him. With a swift spring, that startled the others as if he had fallen through the roof, he darted forward, and ere the French-Canadian's fist could reach its mark a resistless grasp was laid upon his collar, and, swung clear off his feet, he was flung staggering across the room as though he had been a mere child. "You Indian dog!" growled Johnston, in his fiercest tones, "what are you about? Don't let me catch you tormenting that boy again! " LIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP. For a moment there was absolute silence in the shanty, the sudden and effectual intervention of the big foreman in Frank Kingston's behalf filling the onlookers with astonishment. But then, as they recovered themselves, there came a burst of laughter that made the rafters ring, in the midst of which Damase, gathering himself together, slunk scowling to his berth with a face that was dark with hate. Not deigning to take any further notice of him, Johnston turned to go back to his corner, touching Frank on his shoulder as he did so, and saying to him in a low tone,— "Come with me, my lad; I want a word with you. " Still trembling from the excitement of the scene through which he had just passed, Frank followed the foreman into his little sanctum, the inside of which he had never seen before, for it was kept jealously locked whenever its occupant was absent. Johnston threw himself clown on his bunk, and motioned Frank to take a seat upon the chest. For a few moments he regarded him in silence, and so intently that, although his expression was full of kindness, and it seemed of admiration, too, the boy felt his face flushing under his steady scrutiny. At last the foreman spoke. "You're a plucky lad, Frank. Just like your father-God bless him' He was a good friend to me when I needed a friend sorely. I heard all that went on to-night, though I didn't see it, and had some hint of it before, though I didn't let on, for I wanted to see what stuff you were made of. But you played the man, my boy, and your father would have been proud to see you. Now just you go right ahead, Frank; and if any of those French rascals or anybody else tries to hinder you, out of this shanty he'll go, neck and crop, and stay out, as sure as my name is Dan Johnston. " "You're very kind, Mr. Johnston," said Frank, his eyes glistening somewhat suspiciously, for, to tell the truth, this warm praise coming after the recent strain upon his nerves was a little too much for his self-control. "I felt sometimes like telling you when the men tormented me so; but I didn't want to be a tale-bearer, and I was hoping they'd get tired of it and give up of their own accord. " "It's best as it is, lad," replied Johnston. "If the men found out you told me, they'd be like to think hard of you. But there's no fear of that now. And look here, Frank. After this, when you want to read your Bible in peace, and say your prayers, just come in here. No one'll bother you here, and you can sit down on the chest there and have a quiet time to yourself. " Frank's face fairly beamed with delight at this unexpected invitation, and he stood up on his feet to thank his kind friend. "Oh, Mr. Johnston, I'm so glad! I've never been able to read my Bible or say my prayers right since I came to the shanty-there's always such a noise going on. But I won't mind that in here. It's so good of you to let me come in. " The foreman smiled in his deep, serious way, and then as he relapsed into silence, and took up again the book he had laid down to spring to Frank's assistance, Frank thought it time to withdraw; and with a respectful "Good-night, sir," which Johnston acknowledged by a nod, returned to the larger room. The shantymen were evidently awaiting his reappearance with much curiosity; but he went quietly back to his bunk, picked up his Bible, finished the passage in the midst of which he had been interrupted, and, having said his prayers, lay down to sleep without a word to any one; for no one questioned him, and he felt no disposition to start a discussion by questioning any of the others. | 0 | Adventure stories | Lavell, Edith | Oxley, J. Macdonald (James Macdonald) | 53337 | 9968 | Lavell, Edith_[Linda Carlton's Hollywood Flight]_1500_9 | Oxley, J. Macdonald (James Macdonald)_[La religieuse]_1500_9 |
At the square a great panorama was now offered—another view of Rome from a semicircular terrace. They climbed to a spot just beyond the Academy of Spain. Across from the great gate, several carriages were awaiting, one assigned to a Cardinal, while a beard‑less groom—his hairless face evoking a priest, clad in black—panted back and forth. The procession continued uphill toward the Acqua Paola, a raucous, lilting fountain. The foot‑passengers halted to watch the procession unfold. A tall, lean gentleman—his fair, grizzled beard brushing the hedge—stood nearby and greeted the veterans as they marched by. Giustini, in his usual ill‑natured tone, resumed, "That man would like to believe in the modern spirit, and cannot." He is truly a fine man—indeed, that tall‑hatged figure over there, Giorgio Serra. He was an attractive man—a revered apostle, a poet—yet beneath that charisma lay undeniable disillusionment. He is a man of good faith and one of the few democrats I admire. In matters of taste he is undeniably a connoisseur of the aristocratic; his affection for the people stems from an openly generous heart, though he detests vulgarity and cannot help loving everyone he encounters. He will be seen ascending to the Janiculum for the commemoration, yet he will refrain from delivering any address; in certain respects, he is as delicate as a woman. We will see him in a moment; he will extend a courteous bow, for he detests the Chamber’s centre. He is right—nothing is more hateful than the Centre to which we belong, honourable colleague. Why do you belong to it, Honourable Giustini? Oh, I!' "the other replied, his hand gesture exuding a stark, indifferent callowness." Water fell noisily into the ample basin from three spouts; two maid‑servants sat at its lip chatting, while a German priest, from a terrace, gazed at Castel Sant’Angelo, the river, the straight Via Longara, and, below in Trastevere, at the Villa Corsini. The procession marched into Via Garibaldi, with Giorgio Serra trailing at its rear, watching the Roman Campagna and landscape with wistful, affectionate glances. While the two deputies quickened their pace, they had to halt intermittently to accommodate the fashionable carriages. Did all those ladies intend to attend the commemoration? asked Sangiorgio. ' Yes, they are," Giustini sneered. Yet they remain unaware that a commemoration is planned. They set out for a leisurely drive toward Villa Pamphili; it is Friday and the weather is fine, yet, as one might add, a mighty Roman sirocco rolls in, eroding appetite, stirring a longing for sleep, weakening the fibers of the body, and undermining resolve. And, by the way, the women know what they must do, and indeed they do. Bah!' Sangiorgio remarked, his hand gesturing a clear disdain toward women. Giustini fixed him with a long, measuring look, yet asked not a single question. They marched past the venerable Porta San Pancrazio, its ancient threshold a silent testament to Rome’s storied past. La Via della Mura scende, stretta e tortuosa, verso la Valle dell'Inferno e il Vaticano a destra, e verso la Villa Pamphily a sinistra. Before the tavern, two carabineers stood rigid and impassive; then a road appeared, separated from the open countryside by a hedge to its left, while a high, gray, weather‑worn wall rose to its right. In a prominent spot stood a small, worm‑eaten wooden gate, on which the name of the farm and the house behind the wall—“Il Vascello”—was inscribed. The splendid name alone was enough, making the wall’s monument and the rain‑rotten dry wreaths superfluous. Under the memorial stone, the procession gathered into a tight cluster, leaving a clear lane for the carriages heading toward Villa Pamphili, as the carabineers drew close. The veteran soldiers clustered quietly around the flag, silent and contemplative, while the deputies stayed somewhat aloof—Giustini with a hideous grimace of boredom, Sangiorgio lost in a curious, observing mood. A laborer scaled a ladder propped against the wall, discarded the decayed wreaths, dabbed the monument with his elbow, and affixed a new wreath—his gesture earning cheers from those below. From the top of the wall a peasant—the custodian of the place—stood there with a face as sallow and melancholy as those of the Roman peasantry, looking on indifferently. He stood up from the seat of the single‑horse hackney coach by the wall to deliver a speech. The students welcomed him with a thunderous cheer. He was a very fair, stout young man, whose small blue eyes were languid, a tiny point‑point moustache, hands white and round like a woman’s, long pink nails, and a diamond ring on his fourth finger. Attired in a flamboyant, salon‑style ensemble, his unspoilt face glimmered with an exuberant zest for life, while his eyes twinkled with pure, unrestrained joy. He waited until the cheering faded before he began to speak, then signaled with his hand that it should cease. All gathered around him to listen—veterans, students, workers, carabineers, and guards. With a thin, well‑modulated drawing‑room tenor, punctuated by calculated pauses and head turns that evoked a coquettish girl's deliberation, the young man explained dignifiedly that, following the April commemoration, another would take place in December. After that, he immediately launched into a vivid recounting of the siege of Rome, as if he had been there himself; the veterans bowed their heads in respect toward the young, elegant speaker. With an easy but slow delivery, he seemed at times to soften his tone and launch a jab at the priesthood and the Vatican; leaning against the wall to his left, he spoke ambiguously in the manner of a young actor, rolling his r’s. The few veterans, absorbed in reverie, stopped paying attention, their minds steeped in memories of the sacred hill where they had fought for their country’s redemption and where comrades‑in‑arms had fallen with contorted faces and chest wounds inflicted by the bullets of Vincennes sharpshooters. Occasionally, one of them would mutter a few hushed words, recalling a particular episode, his brow furrowed and his hands gripping the handle of his cane. That night they heard the Frenchmen laughing in their tents, and one whispered, “Do you remember Garibaldi’s African soldier, who died after a splinter from a French bomb broke his shoulder?” How magnificent Colonel Manara was—“handsome and brave,” the young man proclaimed. The students, his friends, gathered even more tightly around the hackney carriage, shaking his hands and applauding him with enthusiastic acclaim. He bowed to them with a generous smile, offering handshakes, and at intervals pressed a tiny black‑bordered cambric handkerchief, scented with hay, against his pale forehead. The laborers and ordinary people stayed skeptical and indifferent, their sardonic Roman smiles a barrier few could shatter. Someone shouted aloud, “Serra!” Serra! Where is Serra? Let Giorgio Serra speak!' But Serra did not answer. Mayhap he had slipped quietly into the midst of the crowd. The crowd began to scan the surroundings, as if making a decision. Serra! Serra!' It was repeated, the name conjuring the image of that distinguished poet and artist. But Serra was not there. Perhaps the gentle dreamer—repelled by the harshness of reality—had slipped back into the Rome he loved, or, more plausibly, skirted the wide, hawthorn‑laden hedge, and instead wandered into the broad, tranquil avenues of the Villa Pamphily, where he could revive his cherished fantasies among the pastoral greens and drink anew from nature’s inspiring beauty. "I knew it," murmured Giustini to Sangiorgio. I knew Serra would disappear. He hates oratory.' ' "He was mistaken—power resides in the spoken word," Sangiorgio countered. The Tuscan deputy glanced again at the southern deputy, a faint surprise flickering across his face. They were not drawn together by esteem, sympathy, or any other tie; instead, only curiosity and a desire to learn each other lingered, tempered by diffidence, much like two fencing adepts who keep their guard up and refuse to launch an overt attack. All around them the crowd was slowly dispersing; the standard‑bearer had gone, the veterans had disbanded, and were winding down in groups of two or three, stooped in rough overcoats with legs uncertain. Occasionally one of them would stop to give a last look at the Vascello. | But why did she say nothing to the man who was drawing his face nearer to hers and speaking so softly? Which thought was holding her back? Which emotion was sweeping over her? He leaned toward the woman, like unshackling the hush that shrouded the woman, coaxing a phrase that would not surface in the woman's sealed mouth. You haven’t reached thirty yet, Maria? He asked, sighing. “I’m twenty‑eight,” she whispered softly. "I am old now," he whispered sadly, clasping her hand, "I am too old for you." Youth is a wonderful thing. Youth is a magnificent thing," she declared, her voice lifting as her eyes flashed. The incantation was broken. Emilio forcefully released her hand. He stood up, pulled himself aside, and walked through the room two or three times with a gloomy, almost clumsy stride, nearly colliding with the furniture. Sadly, she looked at him, seeing him prey to a sudden surge of fury, and before that, her heart quivered anxiously. Emilio!" She called out twice or three times, but he didn’t listen. "‘Maria,’ he finished, saying it in a low, unbroken growl." "What's wrong?" "Nothing," he answered between his teeth. Slowly but surely, his violent shuffling between the chairs quieted. He paused a short distance from the table and took a seat. He rested his elbows on the table, curled his head into his palms, and was lost in deep, unsettling thoughts. Time slipped away while Maria seemed wrapped in contemplation. At last she seemed to have reached a decision. She stood and crossed the room, bent over her husband—without touching him—and called to him again, “Emilio.” He began, yet said nothing. "'Emilio, my friend, reply,' she said softly, her tone laced with insinuation." What do you want?" It was a bleak reply. I would like to know what’s troubling you. Nothing troubles me. Why do you lie? "You’re clearly troubled—what’s going on?" "You would laugh at me." She answered patiently, saying, “I have never laughed at anyone.” Who knows?" He spoke, gaping into her with wild fury, openly intent to insult her. She froze, her complexion going white. Yet her moral resolve proved overwhelming. Someone who takes pleasure in another’s suffering is a knave and a fool—wouldn't you agree that I’m neither perverse nor foolish, Emilio? He replied with a grim voice, “I am not suffering,” and stood up. You’re in error, my friend. Do you intend to deceive either yourself or me? You have a darkness within yourself; tell me what it is. He sighed gloomily and replied, “I have nothing, and I am not suffering.” She shook her head, a motion steeped in quiet sorrow. Maybe I could offer you some comfort, Emilio? No." " Every human being, with a feeling heart and a soulful spirit, has the capacity to offer comfort. No." " Aren’t I your friend, Emilio? Do you lack faith in your friend? He sneered horribly. " Friend? friend? You my friend? You, you? Should I place my faith in you? His laughter sent a shiver through her. "How you must be suffering, Emilio, to speak like that," she said softly, pressing her hands to her chest. Such words and that overt display of compassion caused his heart to melt. He settled back into his seat, exhaling a long sigh. "Oh, the anguish I endure!" Her essence was reshaped by an overwhelming compassion. She hunched over him, gently brushing his shoulders with her fingers. He trembled, lifted his face, and looked at her with eyes so saturated with immense, boundless sorrow that Maria saw in him the living embodiment of anguish. Could you tell me why you’re suffering, Emilio? She demanded, her voice swelled by such emotion that it seemed to heighten his spasms. I can't!" he said desperately. " Whatever you wish to reveal, I can endure. Speak, Emilio—speak—and don’t fear offending me or saddening me. She beckoned him softly, saying, “Speak,” her voice thick with pity. "I can't, I can't," he whispered, his voice laced with cold desperation. My friend, don’t treat yourself so harshly. Be kinder to your wounded heart, and spare your wounded soul from mistreatment. Be kinder to yourself—more humane, tender, and compassionate, my friend—otherwise those wounds that bleed will never close, and you will never feel them heal. Then you will sigh, letting every drop of your finest blood drift away, Emilio. He murmured softly, “It is indeed true,” as if speaking to himself. Friend, conquer your pride and your self‑love. All of us—none excluded—have suffered, are suffering, and will continue to suffer. Suffering does not bring shame or reproach. Those who mask their suffering with pride are neither true men nor Christians, and they forgo the human comfort found in weeping. "Indeed, that’s true," he murmured. Friend, I speak the gentle words that cradle sorrow, steady it, and finally usher it into peaceful repose. Later, when it stirs within us, it becomes gentler and weaker—a far milder torment. He stared at her with the anxious, tender gaze of a wounded child. Friend, why do you endure this suffering? She leaned over him, her face radiant with the grandeur of her loving charity, asked him while gently taking his hand and caressing it as one would the tender, wounded hand of a sick child. You oughtn't to suffer. You've always been an upright and just man. Your life is devoid of remorse, guided by a tranquil and steadfast moral conscience. I know you have not sinned—you have caused no sorrow. Your life, free of remorse, is so beautiful that suffering should never touch it. He gazed at her with fervor, almost savoring her words as if they were a heavenly drink. There’s no reason for you to suffer. You are no longer alone; a friend stands beside you, close to your heart, and all she wishes is that you no longer suffer, that loneliness fades, and that a caring soul remains with you. She, too, appeared buoyant, suffused with compassion, tenderness, and devotion. “Emilio, your Maria is here,” she intoned solemnly. Like a madman, he seized her, pressed her desperately to his chest in a frenzied embrace, and kissed her long, while she, trembling and lost, shut her eyes as if confronting mortal peril. Immediately, as if her very presence had scorched him and her lips had denied him a kiss, he shoved Maria aside with brutal force and yelled, “You make me horrified!” Emilio!" She gasped, utterly amazed. Go away, go away. You cause me horror!" He shouted straight into her face, as though the fury in him had gone completely mad. She withdrew, stunned and terrified. You have pardoned me!" she exclaimed. " "It is true, it’s true," he shouted, "but I cannot let it go." "Go away, go away; I’m unable to forget." She walked away, bent and broken, defeated by the incomparable weight of the truth. XIII In one of Casa Nerola’s grand reception rooms, beside a bank of vast Hortense roses, two young girls stood quietly conversing and smiling, their delicate white fans fluttering gently. Theresa Santacroce was dressed in a light‑blue gown, cinched with a silver belt, her hair swept back and crowned with a circlet of silver ivy leaves. Stefania Farnese, the other girl, wore ivory silk, and two large red roses tucked into her chestnut hair gave her a strikingly Spanish look, even though her beauty remained delicate. We feared we’d be late for Mom. We intentionally scheduled dinner for seven. Is that why you haven’t been to the tea room? Of course. Here, as at court, one must arrive before the sovereigns. Naturally, the emperor’s entrance is the most beautiful spectacle. Do all the women really have love for him? So they say. I personally dislike Germans. Stefania, let us thank him. If he had not come to Rome in December, we wouldn’t have had the first ball at this time. Long live the Kaiser, then! Because we were without him, we would have had to wait until the end of February. Stefania, isn’t it true that you’re expecting Giovanni Altieri? Giovanni Altieri! I’d rather not hear his name mentioned. No one could be more talkative or frivolous. Really!" " Certainly. Just think: this summer he’s fallen for foreign women—Americans, Russians, and English—three or four times. And now that wretched fellow can only speak ill of Italian girls. How all our sweethearts win over these foreign women! Let us arrange a reciprocal exchange with them. Let’s travel abroad with our mothers and wed Russian princes, English dukes, and American millionaires. A sound suggestion, though our Italians truly are very sympathetic. Look at Marco Fiore over there; what a handsome youth! | 0.6 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao | 46517 | 50318 | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao_[La conquista di Roma. English]_1500_15_0.8 | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao_[After the Pardon]_1500_27_0.8 |
I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay figures. I am glad of this; although I could take great pride in the graceful statue she creates, I would be infinitely prouder of her as a loving daughter who has a gift for making life beautiful for herself and for others. What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring. " Beth answered that she had read in Pilgrim’s Progress that after many trials Christian and Hopeful arrived at a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all year round and, there, they rested happily—just as we do now—before continuing their journey, and then, slipping from her father's arms to the instrument, she added, “It’s singing time now, and I want to be in my old place.” I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for father, because he likes the verses. " Sitting at the little piano, Beth softly pressed the keys and, in a sweet voice she had never known she could sing, began the quaint hymn that seemed perfectly fitting for her: “He that is down need fear no fall…” I am content with what I have, Little be it or much; And, Lord! contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such. " Fulness to them a burden is, That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age! " XXIII. AUNT MARCH SETTLES THE QUESTION. Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered around Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything else to stare at, attend to, and listen to the new invalid, who seemed ready to receive kindness. He sat propped in a large chair beside Beth’s sofa, the other three close by, and Hannah poked her head in now and then just to peek at the dear man; it seemed nothing more was required to complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden bursts of sobriety, and was seen flinging her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella that had been left in the hall; Meg, absent‑minded, shy, and silent, startled when the bell rang and flushed when John’s name was mentioned; Amy remarked, “Everyone seemed…”. That afternoon Laurie walked by and, spotting Meg at the window, suddenly broke into a melodramatic display—he knelt in the snow, paced his breast, tugged at his hair, and clasped his hands as if pleading for a boon; when Meg told him to behave and leave, he fished out an imaginary tear from a handkerchief and staggered off, looking utterly dejected. What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing, and trying to look unconscious. " He's showing you how your John will go on by and by. Touching, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully. " Don't say _my John_, it isn't proper or true;" but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. " Please don’t trouble me, Jo; I've already told you I don’t care much about him, and there’s nothing more to say, but we should all remain friendly and move on as before. We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoilt you for me. I see it, and so does mother; you are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to plague you, and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate to wait; so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly. " "Until he speaks, I can't say or do anything—and he won’t, because my father said I’m too young," Meg remarked, bending over her work with a quirky smile that hinted she didn’t entirely agree with that judgment. If he ever spoke, you might be at a loss for words—perhaps cry or blush—and could simply acquiesce to his demands instead of issuing a firm, resolute “no.” I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know exactly what I should say, because I’ve planned everything, so there’s no need for me to be caught off guard—the outcome is uncertain, but I want to be prepared. Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed, and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks. " Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully. " Sure—at sixteen you’re old enough to be my confidant, and I’m confident that my experience will eventually be helpful to you in dealing with situations like this. I don’t mean to indulge in that; watching others flirt is amusing, but I would feel foolish doing it myself," said Jo, alarmed at the thought. I think not, if you liked any one very much, and he liked you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane, where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight. " I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie. " I would simply answer, calmly and firmly, “Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you’re very kind, but I agree with my father that I’m too young for any engagement now—let’s just stay friends as we were.” Hum! that's stiff and cool enough. I don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings. " " No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity. " As Meg rose to rehearse her dignified exit, a footfall in the hallway sent her scurrying back to her seat, where she began to sew as though her life depended on completing that particular seam within a set time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and, when some one gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect, which was anything but hospitable. " Good afternoon. "I came to pick up my umbrella, or rather, to see how your father is doing today," Mr. Brooke said, a tad confused as his gaze darted between one familiar face and another. Everything is fine; he's in the rack, I'll fetch him and tell him you’re here," she murmured, having tangled her father’s name with the umbrella in her reply, and then stepped out of the room to give Meg a chance to deliver her speech and preserve her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle towards the door, murmuring,— "Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her. " " Don't go; are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She flushed at the delicate curls on her forehead, surprised that he had never yet called her Margaret, and delighted by how natural and sweet the name sounded. Eager to appear friendly and at ease, she extended her hand in a trusting gesture and, gratefully, asked, “How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father?” I only wish I could thank you for it. | " "If thinking Mrs. Arlington a lady in the very best sense of the word is a low taste, I confess myself afflicted," says Miss Chesney, rather saucily; whereupon Lady Chetwoode, who knows mischief is brewing and is imbued with a wholesome horror of all disputes between her son and his ward, rises hurriedly and prepares to quit the room. " She added, somewhat offhandedly, that Archie would make his train. He is always so careless, and I know it is important that he see his solicitor this evening regarding the transfer of York’s farm. Where is Archibald?" " "I believe the answer lies in the library," says Lilian. "Dear Archie, we shall sorely miss you!" shan't we, auntie?" This regretful speech refers to Mr. Chesney’s planned departure, which, driven by business obligations, compels him to leave Chetwoode and the person he loves. We shall, indeed. “But remember,” she whispered kindly, “he’s promised to return for Christmas with Taffy.” “I do recollect it,” she added brightly, “though it stirs tears in my eyes.” Lady Chetwoode places her hand on the girl’s shoulder, pressing it gently in a pleading gesture. "Please heed Guy’s advice, dear," she whispered gently; "he always has your best interests at heart." Lilian remains silent, then turns her head gracefully and presses her red lips to the gentle hand that still rests on her shoulder. After Lady Chetwoode exits, Lilian and her guardian are left alone. A foreboding hush settles in the room once she has gone. After discarding the sad sock, Lilian holds a priceless Dresden china cup and studies it with intense fascination. Will you promise never to return to The Cottage? Urged to press Sir Guy for a thorough discussion, the urgency of the case spurred his insistence. "I don't think so." Why are you stubbornly determined to keep refusing? angrily. " He chuckled lightly and said, “For many reasons.” Would you like me to tell you one? Have you ever heard about the pleasure of being forbidden? This is no mere trifle. If it were possible, I would explain what would keep you from ever wishing to know Mrs. Arlington again. I am your guardian and therefore responsible for you; I forbid you from being intimate at The Cottage, and you must obey me on this point. Must you? "We shall see," replied Miss Chesney, her tantalising laugh tempered by the sweet beauty of her radiant face, her dewy, almost‑rebellious mouth, and her large blue eyes now ablaze with childish wrath—an allure that would have nearly made him hate her. He is overwhelmed by indignation he barely manages to control. As your guardian, I forbid you from seeing that woman,” he said curtly. And why, pray?" " I can't explain—I'm simply forbidding you. She is unsuitable to be an associate of yours. Then I will not be forbidden; that will do. Defiantly, Miss Chesney declared. "Lilian, I've spoken enough—never again go to The Cottage," Guy said, his face turning pallid. If you choose to go ahead, you will regret it. Is that a threat?
→ Could that be a threat? No, it’s merely a warning. Treat it as such only if you are truly wise. Should you defy my wishes in this matter, I will no longer be your guardian. “I won’t let you take control of me,” Lilian bellows, tears of fierce longing streaking her eyes. Overcome with excitement, she rises to her feet and confronts him, the Dresden cup still in her grasp. I am no beggar, nor should I crave your hospitality. I'm sure I can find a home with someone who won’t hate me the way you do. In the heat of her outburst, the naïve child, losing herself entirely, lifts her hand and, seizing the nearest object, hurls the cherished cup to the floor, where it shatters into a thousand fragments. Guy, in silence, ponders the ruins while Lilian watches him; a flicker of remorse is absent from her angry, fair little face. Guy’s most acute regret at this moment is that she isn’t a boy; after all, he would love to playfully poke her ears. Being a woman and exceedingly lovely, he is inevitably left powerless. So now!" Miss Lilian replied, her defiance undiminished. “I have every intention,” he says, slowly looking into her eyes, “that you pick up every one of those fragments.” His comment is beneath him, proving that even in his madness there is no method at all. His words fall like a crimson spark into the scorching blaze of Miss Chesney’s wrath. You desire!" she says, blazing instantly. " What do you intend to say? Desire!' I want you to pick them up, and I will stay here to watch you obey my orders. She drew a little nearer, now standing opposite him, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. She pointed a small, steady finger at the shattered shards. She appears as a delicate creature, yet her fiery spirit forces Chetwoode—though he acknowledges the situation’s absurdity—to hide no smile. Again, Lilian snapped, “Collect every single fragment.” What a small spark of fury you possess! Guy sighed, averting his gaze, then with a faint shrug he yielded, stooping to gather the shards of discord. “I do it,” he says, standing up as he finishes his task and letting severity harden his features once more, “to prevent my mother from being upset by such an exhibition.” Going forward, please remember that even though you are my guardian, I will not be treated as if I were a wayward child. “You certainly have a wicked temper!” Guy, pale and drawing a quick breath, began to speak. He smiles while speaking, but the grin is more likely to stir offence than to calm. “ ‘I haven’t,’ Lilian retorts, her voice thick with passion. ” I should never have let anger take hold of me because you provoked me. You are the one with the wicked temper. I dislike you! I hate you! I wish I’d never set foot in your house. And, by straightening herself to full height—though it hardly shifted her position—she declared, “I shall now leave it!” I will never return to it again. She hurls a fearful threat at his head with great fervour. Though she may not mean it, it is preferable to act with firmness on such occasions. The less you intend to say, the more eloquent and fervent you should be; when you truly mean something, little fervor is needed, because the action will speak for itself. This rule demands strict adherence. Guy, his head cocked higher than usual, gazes calmly at the window, scrolling past the outburst. His silence enrages Miss Chesney, who still harbors enough anger to carry her through yet another quarrel. She was about to unleash her wrath on her unhappy guardian again when the door opened and Florence, calm and stately, entered. Aunt Anne not here?" She says this, then glances at Guy—still clutching fragments of the shattered cup, his expression distinctly guilty—and at Lilian, whose soft face is flushed crimson and whose blue eyes deepened noticeably. After a brief pause, Lilian strides across the room, steps out, and slams the door shut behind her with gratuitous force. Dear me!" Florence, once she has recovered from the shock her delicate nerves endured during the abrupt closing of the door, exclaims affectedly. How vehement dear Lilian is! Nothing erodes a person’s manners more profoundly than being brought up devoid of the guidance of well-bred women. The loss of it turns a girl into a truly hoydenish maiden. No?" says Miss Beauchamp, sweetly. " Perhaps you are right. "As a rule," he said, his admiring glance thrown so deftly that one would regret its sudden flight, "you always are." It may simply be her natural spirit, but if that's the case, don't you think she has a great deal of it? I don't know, I'm sure," says Sir Guy. | 0.3 | Young women -- Fiction | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May) | Duchess | 37106 | 35228 | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May)_[Little Women; Or, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy]_1500_59_0.3 | Duchess_[Airy Fairy Lilian]_1500_61_0.8 |
There was a certain freedom of intimacy between these two, partly, no doubt, because Roy's father was on the Local Council. The scoutmaster had no favorites and the close relation between himself and Roy was not generally apparent in the troop. Simply put, Roy enjoyed a special privilege that Mr. Ellsworth’s warm connections at the Blakeley house seemed to encourage, and I would be surprised if Roy’s own buoyant, charmingly assertive personality hadn’t played a significant part in it. He also (though in quite another way than Tom) seemed a law unto himself. Arranging himself with drawn up knees upon the scoutmaster's cot, he began without any introduction. " Did you notice, Chief" (he often called the scoutmaster chief) "how he kept saying, 'I am a scout'? " " Yes, I did," said Mr. Ellsworth, wearily. " It's the one ray of hope. " " Did you notice how he said he was obeying the law?" " Yes, he did; I had forgotten that. " " His wanting the Handbook, too," said Mr. Ellsworth, quietly, "had a certain ring to it. " " Did you ever take a squint at that Handbook of his, Chief?" " No," said Mr. Ellsworth, smiling wanly; "I'm not as observant as you, Roy. " " He has simply worn it out—it's a sight. " " His mind is not complex," said Mr. Ellsworth, half-heartedly, "yet he's a mystery. " " Everything is literal to Tom, Chief; he sees only two colors, black and white. " There was another pause. " Why don't you eat a little something, Chief?" " No, not to-night, Roy. I can't. If that thing is true—if there's no explanation, why, then my whole structure falls down; and John Temple is right." His voice almost broke. " Tom is either no scout at all or else——" "Or else he's about the best scout that lives," interrupted Roy. " Will you ever forget how he looked as he stood there? Hanged if I can! I've seen pictures enough of scouts—waving flags and doing good turns and holding staves and looking like trim little soldiers——" "Like you, Roy," smiled Mr. Ellsworth. " But I never saw anything like that! Did you notice his mouth? His——" "I know," said Mr. Ellsworth, "he looked like a martyr. " " "Whenever you see a picture of a scout," Roy remarked, "it always showcases what a scout can accomplish with his hands and feet—be it tracking, signalling, or something similar." There was a picture that shows the other side of it. You never see those pictures in the books. Cracky as it was, I’d have liked to snap a picture of him just as he stood there, mouth set like a trap’s jaws, eyes a mile away, and his hand gripping that battered old Handbook. I'm glad you dropped in, Roy, it cheers me up. " " Oh, I'm a good scout," laughed Roy. " I'm not thinking about you; I'm selfish. I'm the one that hauled Tom across, you know, and I've got my reputation to look after. That's all I care about. " Mr. Ellsworth smiled. " I'm going to dig out the truth about this between now and to-morrow morning. I may have to trespass even, but I should worry. What are you going to do?" " Nothing to-night. In the morning I'll see Mr. Temple and also Tom, and see if I can't get him to talk. What else can I do? What are you going to do?" " I decline to be interviewed," Roy laughed. " Well, don't you get into any trouble, Roy. " When the boy left, Mr. Ellsworth opened his copy of the Handbook for Boys and looked wistfully at the dashing, neat youngster on the cover, clutching the red flags. It always reminded him of Roy. Roy was satisfied that the only hope of learning anything was to visit the scene of Tom's suspicious, or at least unexplained, departure from the Temple house. He knew only what the constable had told him, yet he was convinced that whatever Tom did and wherever he went, it was all intentional. He didn’t think Tom had taken the pin, but he was certain that if he had been tempted, he would have seen Tom take it. For a scout is not only loyal, he is watchful. His trust in Tom matched his confidence in himself, giving him a moral conviction that his friend was innocent, and Tom’s conduct during the arrest reinforced that belief even further. A little before dark, Roy put on his Indian moccasins, took his pocket flashlight and a good stock of matches, and started for Five Oaks. Upon arrival, he confirmed the veranda was empty—thanks to the crisp evening air—and easily followed Tom’s footprints, winding around the back of the house through the newly laid, almost bare lawn. In the little recess by the pantry window he felt more secure. His flashlight’s beam quickly revealed a paint‑smudged smear on the windowsill; like Tom had just spotted it, Roy examined it closely—but his sharp alertness saved him time and trouble. Rather than painstakingly following the footprints across the back lawn, he rushed across it, sprinted to the fence’s end, then returned, carefully examining the upper rail with the aid of his flashlight. Sure enough, there was a faint smootch of paint and by this easy discovery he had saved himself several hundred feet of difficult tracking. Better still, his own suspicions and the servants' original story were confirmed. Tom might have gone around the house, but _someone else had climbed through the pantry window_. For a while, Roy and his trusty pocket flashlight wrestled with the pine‑needle floor beyond the fence; but Tom’s uncertain pauses, turns, and kneelings helped him, and he was grateful that his predecessor had left clues of his own movements to guide him. For he now felt certain that Tom had passed here in the wake of someone else. After wandering for a long while, he finally reached the familiar path, having covered about an eighth of a mile—tracking he later likened to hunting for a pin on a dark carpet. He spent most of his time on his hands and knees, directing his flashlight in every direction and delicately clearing pine needles from a fancied indentation with the precision of a watchmaker. It was less about tracking and more about piecing together a puzzle, a process that finally led him onto the trail where he found something that eliminated the need for further tracking. This was the flask which had lain beside Tom's father. And now Roy, with no human presence to distract him as Tom had had, noticed something lying near the flask which Tom had not seen. This was a little scrap of pasteboard which had evidently been the corner of a ticket, and holding his flashlight to it he examined it carefully. There was the termination of a sentence, "...ers' Union," and the last letters of a name, "...ade," which had been written with ink on a printed line. Other than being the slimmest hint a scout could chase, the scrap meant nothing to him, yet he set out to search with determined diligence for more torn fragments. The wind was already blowing before he arrived, and he had crawled on hands and knees for many feet in every direction until his search paid off with enough scattered scraps to bring him enlightenment. But the light which they shed was like a searchlight! He glued the torn pieces to his own membership card with pine resin, and the reconstructed card revealed it to be a Bricklayers’ Union membership belonging to William Slade. Then, all of a sudden, he caught the whole truth and understood what had happened. ROY TO THE RESCUE It was late when Roy reached camp and he spoke to no one. Early in the morning he repaired to Five Oaks to "beard the lion in his den" and have a personal interview with Mr. John Temple. There was nothing about Mr. Temple or his house which awed Roy in the least. He had been reared in a home of wealth and that atmosphere which poor Tom could not overcome his fear of did not trouble Roy at all. | The sight of the tin made him start and catch in his breath. The tin embodied everything he knew about ships and men—no knight in armor riding along the beach could have astonished him more or stirred his blood hotter. He moved toward the tin, seized it, examined it from every angle, and then fixed his gaze on the cave where it had lain. Inside the cave, he found a woman lying on the sand, a rolled‑up blanket tucked beneath her head. She lay on her back, and as he saw a thin, barely‑visible white hand, his eyes widened and he stepped back, glanced over his shoulder to check the world was still intact, then drew closer once more. He shouted, and the woman shifted. He could see her face now, pale and gaunt, with huge, terrible eyes fixed on him. Far out at sea, close to the foreboding coast of Death, she caught sight of him—a living being, just as a castaway would see a ship on the distant horizon. He watched her extend her arms toward him; then, setting his bundle aside, he knelt beside her, grasping her hands as they sought his, and with those terrible eyes fixed upon him. Her lips quivered—dry and parched—each motion catching his eye. Then it dawned on him. She wanted water. The empty baling tin lay discarded near her, its lid half‑open as if it too had been left waiting in the hush of the cavern’s shadow. The sight of the nearby river rang in his mind, he released his grip, snatched the tin, and scrambled out of the cave. Running toward the river, heedless of the sea elephants or any other danger, he shouted, “Oh, the poor woman!” Oh, what a poor woman. He appeared to be a massive, mad creature. Baby sea elephants scurried aside, and as he hurried back he spilled half a finger into the water, wetting her lips. She sucked his finger like a baby would, and that feeling drove him to curse as tears streamed down his beard. The baling tin was so enormous that he could barely lift it to her lips. He pressed on, unaware that it was his own fingers that were reviving her—a blessed human touch arriving almost too late. Sitting on his heels, with his head swinging from side to side, he saw a stack of tins, a bag, and other dimly glinting metal items behind her. He extended his hand and caught a corner of the bag. It was a bread bag, no doubt, and as he tugged it toward himself, the other items fell clattering down—nearly striking her—and among them was a small tin spoon, as if God had sent it. He grabbed the tin, filled it, held its tip to her lips, and she drank the water, her throat muscles working as if she had taken only half a cupful. After doing it twelve times, he rested with the spoon still in his hand, watching her. She gave a few gentle nods, her gaze never wavered from him, as if she drew her life from his presence. He offered another spoonful of water; she tilted her head as if content, yet her gaze never wavered from him. He knew. Even if the whole situation had been explained to him in full, he would still have been unable to fathom how she clung to him—like a child to its mother, or a creature to the rhythm of life. For all that time, his mind—tossed in confusion and worry—was struggling to understand how she could be like this, with a bread bag close at hand and a river nearby. The tin cup that had come down with the other items sparked an idea—he broke a biscuit from the bag, tossed its crumbs into the cup with some water, and let them soak. Although the wait dragged on, he kept speaking to her from time to time. There. You’re not that bad after all—stay with me until I bring you something better. There's no point in worrying—you’ll be on your pins soon. He paused, cursing the biscuit for its stubborn refusal to soften, and forced it to crumble with a mighty thumb thrust into the cup. His sole concern was getting food into her mouth—doing so mattered far more than the state of his thumbs. He had endured hunger and thirst himself, and as he spoke to her, memories of people he'd seen nearly wiped out by the sea resurfaced. He started feeding her the poisonous broth. He succeeded in giving her six spoonfuls, after which she could no longer stand; still, it was progress. From his position he watched her struggle to keep the food down, realizing that any attempt to vomit would spell her doom. All the while, her eyes remained fixed on him, as if he were helping her in the struggle. He was. His mere presence gave her just enough strength to endure the danger, after which she lay motionless and the scarce food she received began to do its work. It can be argued that the stomach is responsive to the mind—our moods influence it, and it in turn can shape our mental states. Then the dreadful, unblinking stare softened, taking on a more human quality before narrowing slightly. She still floated far out at sea, but she was no longer adrift; like a tiny boat being towed, she now steered toward shore. She slipped into sleep, clutching his thumb. A small heap of wood shavings, chipped from the figurehead, lay near the cave mouth, and beside it rested the axe. He noted the change while he sat motionless like a carved statue, until the grip on his thumb finally eased and the once dry, claw‑like hand—now damp and almost human—relented its hold. Crawling as stealthily and side‑ways as a crab, he grabbed the axe, rose to stand outside with it in hand, and fixed his gaze inward at the woman. He stood vigil over her, checking that she slept soundly, before swinging the axe toward the seal nursery. There, after a brief, brutal sprint across the jagged rocks, he dispatched the young sea‑elephant. Close to the caves, armed with his sailor’s knife, he stripped her of fur and blubber. He set the blubber aside, cut up the meat while keeping the heart and kidneys intact, wrapped the head and the remaining parts in the pelt, and dumped them into a crack between the rocks. Having finished that, he ventured to the river and washed his hands clean of blood and grease. Within his bundle lay a box of half a dozen matches—though they would have been gone long ago, his tobacco supply had still been sufficient. Those items had become useful. He knelt, loosening the bundle. Beside the match‑box lay a rolled‑up shirt, two sailors’ knives, two tobacco boxes, a pair of massive biscuits, a scrap of sailcloth, and a pair of men’s boots—an assortment that hinted he might have been the lone survivor of a trio cast ashore, preserving these items as relics. Indeed, that was the undeniable truth. After securing the matches, he turned his mind to the firewood and the baling tin. A saucepan lay tucked at the rear of the cave, buried beneath other items, yet he could not see it. Seeing the tin, he hesitated, fearing that entering would rouse the woman and she would snap her fingers around his thumb again. It was a hard lesson; he reminded himself that if she had not released her grip he would still be bound, unable to move—proof that God gives a strength far greater than mere physical power, even in weakness. He slipped into the cave, secured the tin, and gathered as much firewood as he desired—all without waking her. It was fairly dry and with the help of the blubber he soon had it burning between two big stones, then he put the tin on, half filled with water, and dropped in the seal meat cut fine. | 0.4 | Adventure stories | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese) | Stacpoole, H. De Vere (Henry De Vere) | 6655 | 20084 | Fitzhugh, P. K. (Percy Keese)_[Tom Slade : Boy Scout of the Moving Pictures]_1500_18_0.2 | Stacpoole, H. De Vere (Henry De Vere)_[Dawson Black: Retail Merchant]_1500_28_0.9 |
You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?" "She was certainly very civil to you. " "Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?—I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness and affability! " Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on. "Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;—but as that was not the case—" "I guessed you would say so,"—replied Lucy quickly—"but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was! " To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any. "Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don't speak;—sure you an't well. " "I never was in better health. " "I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship. " Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied, "Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high. " But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy continued. "I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent. " Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking in. It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.—They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more. But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's. Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did. Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister. "Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!—This would almost make amends for every thing! " Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her. "Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both. " This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression. "Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject. "Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were! " She paused—no one spoke. "I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge. " Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else. "We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now. | Lally worked with feverish energy, trying—ah, how vainly—to escape from her thoughts, and she did the work of two persons. She had bread and cheese and a glass of ale at noon, and a similar allowance of food for supper. That night she slept in a barn with the women tramps, but chose a remote corner, where she buried herself in the hay, and slept peacefully. The next day she would have wandered on in her unrest, but the farmer, discovering her intention, offered her a shilling a day, and she consented to remain. That night she again slept in her remote corner of the barn, and no one spoke to her or molested her. She made no friends among the tramps, not even speaking to them. They were rude, vicious, quarrelsome. She was educated and refined, had been the teacher and companion of ladies, and was herself a lady at heart. She went among these rude companions by the soubriquet of "The Lady," and this was the only name by which the hop farmer knew her. For a week Lally kept up this toil, laboring in the hop-fields by day, and sleeping in a barn at night. At the end of that period, the work being finished, she was no longer wanted, and she went her way, resuming her weary tramp, with six shillings and sixpence in her pocket. For the next fortnight she worked in various hop-fields, paying nothing for food or lodging. Her pay was better too, she earning a sovereign in the two weeks. Three weeks after overhearing Rufus solicit the hand of Miss Wynde in marriage, Lally found herself at Canterbury, shoeless and ragged, a very picture of destitution. Her first act was to purchase a pair of shoes, a ready-made print dress and a thin shawl. Her purchases were all of the cheapest description, not costing her over five shillings. She added to the list a round hat of coarse straw, around which she tied a dark blue ribbon. She found a cheap lodging in the town; and here put on her new clothes. The lodging was an attic room, with a dormer window, close up under the slates of a humble brick dwelling. There was no carpet on her floor, and the furniture comprised only an iron bed-stead, a chair and a table. The house was rented by a tailor, who used the ground floor for his shop and residence, and sub-let the upper rooms to a half dozen different families. The three attic rooms were let to women, Lally being one, and two thin, consumptive seamstresses occupying the others. It was necessary for Lally to find employment without delay, and she inserted an advertisement in one of the local papers, soliciting a position as nursery governess. She had the written recommendation of her former employers, the superintendents of a ladies' school, and with this she hoped to secure a situation. Her advertisement was repeated for three days without result. Upon the fourth day, as she was counting her slender store of money, and wondering what she was to do when that was gone, the postman's knock was heard on the private door below, and presently the tailor's little boy came to Lally's room bringing a letter. She tore it open eagerly. It was dated Sandy Lands, and was written in a painfully minute style of penmanship, with faint and spidery letters. The writer was a lady, signing herself Mrs. Blight. She stated that she had a family of nine children, five of whom were young enough to require the services of a nursery governess. If "L. B."—the initials Lally had appended to her advertisement—could give satisfactory references, was an accomplished musician, spoke French and German, and was well versed in the English branches, she might call at Sandy Lands upon the following morning at ten o'clock. Accordingly the next morning Lally set out in a cab for Sandy Lands, whose location Mrs. Blight had described with sufficient accuracy. It was situated in one of the fashionable suburbs of the old cathedral town. Lally expected from the grandeur of its name to find a large and handsome estate, but found instead a pert little villa, close to the road, and separated from it by a high brick wall in which was a wooden gate. The domain of Sandy Lands comprised a half-acre of rather sterile soil, in which a few larches struggled for existence, and an acacia and a lime tree led a sickly life. The little villa, with plate-glass windows, green parlor shutters drawn half-way up, a gabled roof, from which three saucy little dormer windows protruded, was unmistakably the house of which Lally was in search, for on one side of the gate, over a slit in the wall required for the use of the proper letter-box, was the legend in bright gilt letters, "Sandy Lands. " The cabman alighted and rang the garden bell. A smart looking housemaid with white cap and white apron answered the call. Lally alighted and asked if Mrs. Blight were at home. The smart housemaid eyed the humbly clad stranger rather contemptuously, and remarked that she could not be sure; Mrs. Blight might be at home, and then again she might not. "I received a letter from her telling me to call at this hour," said Lally, with what dignity she could summon. "I am seeking a situation as nursery governess. " "Oh, then Missus is at home," replied the housemaid. "You can come in, Miss." Bidding the cabman wait, Lally followed the servant across the garden to a rear porch and was ushered into a small over-furnished reception room. "What name shall I say, Miss?" asked the maid, pausing in the act of withdrawal. "Miss Bird," answered poor Lally, who had relinquished her young husband's name, believing that she had no longer any right to it. The maid went out, and was absent nearly twenty minutes. Lally began to think herself forgotten, and grew nervous, and engaged in a mental computation of her cabman's probable charges. The maid finally appeared, however, and announced that "Missus was in her boudoir, and would see the young person. " Lally was conducted up stairs to a front room overlooking the road. This room, like the one below, was over-furnished. The wide window opened upon a balcony, and before it, half-reclining upon a silken couch, was a lady in a heavy purple silk gown, and a profusion of jewelry—a lady, short, stout, and red-visaged, with a nose much turned up at the end, and so ruddy as to induce one to think it in a state of inflammation. "Miss Bird!" announced the maid abruptly, flinging in the words like a discharge of shot, and retired precipitately. Mrs. Blight turned her gaze upon Lally in a languid curiosity, and waved her hand condescendingly, as an intimation that the "young person" might be seated. Lally sat down. Mrs. Blight then raised a pair of gold-mounted eye-glasses to her nose, and scrutinized Lally more closely, after what she deemed a very high-bred and nonchalant fashion indeed. She beheld a humbly dressed girl, not past seventeen, but looking younger, with a face as brown as a berry and velvet-black eyes, which were strangely pathetic and sorrowful—a girl who had known trouble evidently, but who was pure and innocent as one might see at a glance. "Ah, is your name Bird?" asked Mrs. Blight languidly. "Seems as if I had heard the name somewhere, but I can't be sure. Of course you have brought references, Miss Bird?" "I have only a recommendation signed by ladies in whose service I have been," said Lally. "I have been a music-teacher, but I possess the other accomplishments you require. " She drew forth the little worn slip of paper which she had guarded as of more value to her than money, because it declared her respectable and a competent music-teacher, and gave it into the lady's fat hands. "It is not dated very lately," said Mrs. Blight. "How am I to know that this recommendation is not a forgery? People do forge such things, I hear. Why, a friend of mine took a footman on a forged recommendation, and he ran away and took all her silver. " Lally's honest cheeks flushed, and her heart swelled. She would have arisen, but that the lady motioned to her to retain her seat, and so long as there was a prospect that she might secure the situation Lally would remain. "The recommendation looks all right," continued Mrs. Blight, scanning it with her glass, while she held it afar off, and daintily between two fingers, as if it were a thing unclean. "You look honest too, but appearances are so deceiving! | 0 | Young women -- Fiction | Austen, Jane | Lewis, Harriet | 161 | 68274 | Austen, Jane_[Sense and Sensibility]_1500_51 | Lewis, Harriet_[Neva's three lovers: a novel]_1500_49 |
" Otto sank into a chair. The radiance had gone. He looked very frail and ghostly. But he took Connie's outstretched hand. " "I wish you joy," he said, stumbling painfully over his words. I do wish you joy!—with all my heart. " Falloden approached him. Otto looked up wistfully. Their gazes locked, and for a moment each man existed solely in the presence of the other. Mrs. Mulholland withdrew, a smile playing across her face even as a sob trembled in her throat. She thought, “It’s as if all of life were a dance, with love and death standing side by side.” She recalled the comparison made by a son of Oxford—that each passing moment is a watershed from which the seas of life and death are equally fed. But Connie was set on handling everything with a laugh. She sat down beside Otto, looking businesslike. " "Douglas and I," the phrase came out rather stiff, have been discussing how long it really takes to get married. Mrs. Mulholland laughed. " Mrs. Hooper has taken such pleasure in Alice's trousseau that you should not expect her to let you rush through yours. Connie declared firmly, “It will be my trousseau, not Aunt Ellen’s.” Let me see. It's now nearly Christmas. Didn't we say the 12th of January?" She looked lightly at Falloden. " "Somewhere nearby," said Falloden, his smile finally echoing hers. Connie said coolly, “I suppose we’ll need a fortnight to get used to each other.” "Then," she lay a hand on Mrs. Mulholland’s knee, "you bring him to Marseilles to meet us?" Certainly—at your orders. " Connie looked at Otto. " Dear Otto?" The soft tone pleaded. He started painfully. " You're awfully good to me. How could I possibly become a burden to you? But I shall go too," said Mrs. Mulholland firmly. Connie exclaimed in triumph. " We four—bound to confront the desert—while she, nodding toward Sorell, shows Nora and Uncle Ewen Rome. She turned to Sorell and said, “You probably don’t know, but I believe the correct date is Monday, January 24, when you and the others are to picnic at Hadrian’s Villa.” The weather's arranged for—and the carriage is ordered. " She regarded him with a sidelong glance, yet her complexion had brightened. So had his. He looked down at her as Mrs. Mulholland and Falloden hurriedly spoke to Otto. You little witch!" Sorell whispered softly, “What are you after now?” Connie laughed in his face. " You'll go—you'll see! " The quick dinner that followed was turned into a banquet celebrating their betrothal. Champagne was poured, and Otto, in wild delight, boasted as always of his forebears and Poland’s incomparable greatness. Nobody minded. After dinner, the studio’s enchanted toy spoke of Brahms and Schumann in the pauses between plotting plans and flipping through maps. But Connie insisted on an early departure. " My guardian will have to sleep over it—and there’s truly no time to lose. Everyone made sure to keep the parting between her and Falloden out of their view. Then she and Mrs. Mulholland were put into their carriage. Sorell chose to walk home, while Falloden went back to Otto. Sorell descended the hill towards Oxford. The storm faded, and the waning moon, which had once blaze over the frozen floods a day or two earlier, emerged again amid the swirling clouds. The lights in Christ Church Hall were out, but the city glimmered faintly luminous against the night. Sorell’s thoughts swirled with tangled emotions, as fractured and jagged as the clouds rushing overhead. The cottage’s conversation and laughter reverberated back to him. How hollow and vain it sounded in the spiritual ear! What could possibly compensate the poor boy, who had only a year or two left to live, for the wasted brilliance of his life—the ruined treasure of his genius? Wasn't it true that his loss had, in fact, benefited the two lovers—one of whom was its author? When Palloden and Constance thought they were immersed in Otto, were they not simply engaging in the ordinary game of sex that any couple plays? It was the very question Otto himself had raised—one that any cynic would undoubtedly have asked. But Sorell's tender humanity passed beyond it. The injury done, indeed, was beyond repair. The mysterious impulse that compelled Falloden to help Otto was just as real in its realm as the anguish and pain; for the philosophical spirit it was even more real—laden with a healing and disciplinary power beyond anyone’s measure. Sorell admitted, half-reluctantly, the life‑and‑character changes that had flowed from it. He was even ready to declare that the man who, despite all prior appearances, had proved capable of feeling it, was nothing far from the Kingdom of God. Oxford drew nearer and nearer. Tom Tower loomed before him. Its great bell rang out. Suddenly, as if he could no longer hold it in, a vision conjured by Connie overtook Sorell’s half‑melancholy mind: the brown eyes of a girl, the frank, cherishing look of a child, and, deepening beneath it, the yearning gaze of a woman to be loved. Did he help Nora translate a few lines of the “Antigone” that morning? Love, all conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden—" It is perhaps not surprising that Sorell, on this occasion, after he had entered the High, should have taken the wrong turn to St. Cyprian's, and wakened up to find himself passing through the Turl, when he ought to have been in Radcliffe Square. | She should not be allowed to throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might bias her in the right direction. " Guy replies nothing, steps onto the balcony, and limps away, his heart swirling with fear and regret, while Miss Beauchamp—calm and triumphant—continues happily with her work. She hopes that the nail still presses her coffin shut, as she stitches her hopes into the canvas beneath her hand—just as Parisian women once wove their vengeful longings into their children's socks, even while the flowers, beauty, and chivalry of France fell beneath the final guillotine. Guy, aimlessly drifting and weighed down by bleak thoughts, mechanically carried out his first idea and turned toward the garden, a spot the deceitful mistress adored. From afar, he catches sight of her standing motionless in the center of a grassy patch, while behind her, Chesney is busy fastening her yellow hair with a wide black ribbon he has clearly been given. He has gathered all her rich tresses into a single knot, his attention lingering palpably over the task. Conspicuously placed in his coat was the blue forget‑me‑not that Lilian had begged from Guy a few minutes earlier, as if her heart were set upon it. Coquette," mutters Chetwoode between his teeth. " Not done yet?" He asks the coquette, at this very moment, about her cousin, giving her a slight, impatient shake of the head. "Yes, just finished," he said, hurriedly completing the oddly curious bow he was making. Well, now run," says Lilian, "and do as I bade you. I shall be here on this spot when you return. You know how I hate waiting: so don't be long,—do you hear?" " Does that mean you will be impatient to see me again? " " Of course," laughing. " I am dying to see you again, aching and yearning for your return; every moment stretches into an hour until you come back to me. Thus encouraged, Archibald quickly vanishes, and Guy comes slowly up to her. " He muttered angrily, “You should not have slipped that flower into Chesney’s coat.” I had no idea you meant it for his adornment. " " Is it in his coat?" Her cutting reply turns her cheeks a rich, warm crimson, her embarrassing self‑consciousness so intense that it drives Guy utterly jealous. “Yes, now I remember,” she says, her voice tinged with mock indifference; “he either took it from me or asked me for it—I can’t quite recall which.” Do you?" " "I do," she replied, resenting his manner—bordering on disbelief—and finding it highly objectionable in her eyes. Why should I trouble myself to recollect such trifles?" After a pause and with deliberate effort, Chetwoode remarked, “You had foolishly judged your cousin before his arrival.” I am glad you have learned to be civil to him. " " More than that, I have learned to like him very much indeed. He is quite charming, and not at all demanding or difficult. Besides, he is my cousin, and the master of my old home. Whenever I think of dear Park, I naturally think of him; until now the two have been linked in my mind, deepening my affection. Guy's heart sank as the echo of Florence’s words swelled in his mind, only to be pierced by Lilian’s own confession. He glances at her despairingly. She plucks the flower petal‑by‑petal, and a soft sigh drifts from her lips. Is it for her lost home? Does she already dream of the instant when she might return and embrace her home once more as its radiant mistress? Is she mercenary, as Florence hinted? or is it homesickness that is tempting her? or can it be that at heart she loves this cousin? " He bitterly remarked, “The same rule holds for all women: the one who arrives last is always favored, and the newest face is the most adored.” "I don't understand you," he said with a cold reproach, "surely you've drifted from the topic—we were saying nothing about the last arrivals or new faces." If you happen to be in a bad mood, Sir Guy, I find it rather difficult that you would come here and subject me to it. I am not in a bad temper,"—indignantly. " No? It seems very like it," says Miss Chesney. " I can't bear cross people: they are always saying unpleasant as well as unmeaning things. New faces, indeed! I really wish Archibald would come; he is always agreeable, and never starts distasteful topics. Ah, here he is! Archie, how long you have been! I thought you were never coming! Sir Guy is in one of his most terrible moods, and his presence has frightened me to the brink of death. I was in danger of being lectured off the face of the earth. No woman should be pitied but she that has a guardian! You barely arrived in time to save me—another minute, and you would have found only a lifeless Lilian. Sir Guy, black with rage, turns aside. Archibald, ignorant of the storm brewing, sinks beside her contentedly upon the grass. " O spirit of love, how fresh and quick thou art!"—SHAKESPEARE. It is the gloaming,—that tenderest, fondest, most pensive time of all the day. Night still presses to the land’s rim, hesitant to lay its dark shade upon the smiling earth, while day—slow and sorrowful—recedes into the evening. A hush settles over everything; above, perched on leafy branches, birds nestle and croon their cradle songs, while the merry breeze, weary from the day's exertion, falls asleep, leaving the grasses silent and unmoved. An owl in the distance is hooting mournfully. Around all, a pervasive serenity blankets the scene, an all‑encompassing stillness that moves one to sorrow and quietly fills the eyes with tears. It is the quiet that follows grief, as if the frantic world—long steeped in the day's heat and turmoil, weeping and groaning in anguish—has now, for only a few brief hours, found rest. The last roses of summer in Mrs. Arlington’s garden, after the bees have abandoned their bright, young blossoms, grow drowsy, hanging their heavy heads in dejection. Two or three fleeting butterflies, enchanted by the late hours and charmed by the warmth, glide gracefully through the air. As Cecilia walked down the garden path, she leaned her arms against the wrought‑iron gate and turned her eyes toward Chetwoode. She wore a brilliant white cambric, cinched at the neck with a sprig of lavender ribbon; hints of that hue drifted through her dress, and atop her head perched a delightful little mob cap, adding yet more allure to her countenance and making her seem even more feminine and endearing. When she leans against the gate, the final golden ray of sunlight falls on her, slipping into her eyes, tasting a quiet kiss from her slightly parting lips, then, drifting down gently, it lingers over her bosom, plucking a faint sweetness from the wilting white rose at her breast, casts a warm amber haze over her white gown, and finally bows respectfully at her feet. Yet that beloved sunbeam does not bring a warm blush across her cheek, nor does it quicken her pulses or make her heart beat fast. Cyril approached her, hatless and dressed for the evening, his brisk strides betraying a flattering haste, unfazed by any possible consequences. Yet, though many weeks have passed since their first encounter, neither has spoken any words of affection; nevertheless, each has learned to read the other's heart, recognizing that the eyes can convey a richer, gentler eloquence than any spoken phrase. Again?" Cecilia says softly, her soft gray eyes glimmering with a hint of wonder and unmistakable delight. Yes; I could not keep away," returns he, simply. He does not inquire about entry; instead, he leans against the gate on his side, pressed very close to her. Most fair men look sharp in evening attire, but Cyril is downright handsome: his blonde moustache gleams gold, his blue eyes darken in the departing sun, and right now they burn with love and passionate admiration. Her half‑bare arms, draped in delicate shadowy lace, look rounded and velvety like a child’s in the fading dusk, while the fingers of her pretty, blue‑veined hands interlace. Separating their clasp, Cyril placed one hand between his own and stroked it fondly, silently yet almost absent‑mindedly. Suddenly raising his head, he looks at her, his whole heart in his expression, his eyes full of purpose. | 0.2 | Young women -- Fiction | Arnold, Mary Augusta | Duchess | 13501 | 35228 | Arnold, Mary Augusta_[Lady Connie]_1500_79_0.5 | Duchess_[Airy Fairy Lilian]_1500_40_0.5 |
"Ciel! "He's mad," she whispered to herself softly, then pressed her voice to the air: "You’re dreaming, mon enfant—what does that mean?" There are no hobgoblins in this house. " " Mais oui, madame!" The child, speaking with measured conviction, exclaimed, “There are, right under the roof; they say so,” and pointed down. They?" repeated the good woman, bewildered; "who are 'they'?" " Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too," he replied; "it must be true! " " Ah!" ejaculated madame sharply; "so they gossip about this place, do they?" Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows. " They told me of the hobgoblins," he repeated stoutly. Madame Michel's face cleared a little. " Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!" she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. " Sainte Geneviève! I thought—" But she did not finish the sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron's shoulder. " Listen to me," she said, in a sharp, clear tone. " “I have never beaten you, mon enfant, yet should you mention this attic to Jehan, Pierre, Manchette, or anyone else, I will surely beat you, Péron, and you will be denied dinner and barred from Rue des Petits Champs—do you understand?” Péron looked up at her bright red face, his childish courage quivering; yet as a proud boy, he inwardly vowed to flee at the very first blow. Why do you not speak?" she cried angrily; "you hear me, enfant!" " I will not tell, madame," the boy answered gravely, "but you will not whip me! " She let go of him, astonished by the look on his face as a flicker of almost‑shame settled over her. She knelt down on the garret floor and kissed the child's hand, the picture of humility. " "I beg your pardon, monsieur," she whispered, tears in her voice; "you’re right—I will not whip you." There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose and brushed the dampness from her lashes with the heel of her broad, strong hand. I am an old fool!" She pushed him toward the ladder and hissed, “Go away, mon enfant; there’s nothing here but old chests, old clothes, and old hopes!” At that very instant, her gaze landed on M. de Turenne, who sat tranquilly at the ladder’s apex, licking his gray fur as the tip of his tail swept a gentle, enchanted circle. Scat!" She shouted, stamping her feet, “Between the cat and the child I shall go mad,” and pulled both of them down the ladder, slamming the door shut behind them. All the while the piece of red glass had remained tightly clasped in Péron's hand. He had grasped it involuntarily amid his agitation, and now he dreaded confiding it to Madame Michel, fearing the same scene would repeat. He crept away with it to his own little room and examined it with a tremor of excitement. It was so pretty that it nearly sparked a terrible calamity, and he feared that if Madame had struck him, he would have died of shame. He worried both about returning the stone and about playing with it, making it yet another fresh source of embarrassment. However, he finally solved the problem by determining to hide it away. Within a small cupboard at the edge of his room a single shelf held his prized trove—wax and paper models of jacquemarts, broken watch‑springs, fanciful pebbles, a host of wonderfully useless trinkets—and Madame Michel never meddled. He cherished the little shard with the pride of a sole proprietor, slipping it into a dark corner wrapped in a soiled sheet of paper. For a few days he slipped it out in secret and played with it, then forgot about it, leaving it lying unobserved and unattended; Madame Michel had yet to notice the loss. After Péron’s curiosity about the garret was quenched and he discovered it to be bare and unpromising, he quickly let it go; it was only once more in his childhood that he startled Madame Michel by mentioning it. This was on the occasion of a conversation which took place some months later in the shop. The house at the sign of Ste. Geneviève was too small to accommodate the apprentices overnight, so after the shop closed they went home, leaving the modest household to itself. Since none of his clients ever paid him visit after sundown, Jacques des Horloges found himself free to entertain his personal friends. The clockmaker was a quiet man, hardly inclined toward conviviality, and at such hours he received few visitors, preferring instead to devote his time to studies related to his craft and to straighten his accounts. In the evening, it was family custom to gather around the living‑room table, which was brightly lit by taper candles. Madame Michel was perpetually knitting, her needles darting with remarkable speed, while her gaze keenly watched both Péron and M. de Turenne. Jacques des Horloges, a broad‑shouldered stalwart from Picardy, drew every observer’s admiring gaze with his rugged face and honest, kind eye. With a hulking frame far from typical of a clockmaker, he seemed better suited to swing a sword than to turn the delicate gears of a watch. His attire matched his social station and bore no hint of the wealth that, as whispered, he had amassed. The only adornment he wore was a gold chain holding a tiny cruciform watch, crafted so cleverly that it not only chimed the hours but also displayed the day of the month. While Jacques, his wife, and little Péron sat around the table that evening, a knock at the shop door shattered the quiet. Madame Michel rose, still knitting, and ambled across the dimly lit shop to answer the knock, her fingers so deft that not a single stitch was missed as she moved between the tiers of clocks. When she opened the door she curtsied low and greeted the visitor with reverence as well as affection. A moment later she returned to the living room, escorting a tall, thin man in plain black priestly robes—an older gentleman, slightly stooped, whose face conveyed an unusual sweetness and refined expression. Michel welcomed the stranger with the same cordiality his wife had shown, and even little Péron rushed forward to offer him a chair, while the cat pressed itself against the priest’s cassock in all‑too‑obvious affection. Some people attract the instinctive trust and affection of all animals, and the clearest proof of that is the aversion they provoke in others. The instinct of an animal is more unerring than human perception: it recognizes both brutes and traitors. The priest smiled an equal welcome upon all, but there was perplexity in his blue eyes. He settled into his chair, laid his broad‑brimmed hat on the table, and folded his hands on his knee; his fingers—slender, nervous, and delicate—were handsome in appearance. His pallid face was rimmed with fine lines around his thin lips and beneath his wide eyes, betraying worry, sleepless nights, and a sense of lifelong vigilance; he resembled a young scholar, and his hair—grey at the nape and white at the temples—hinted at his age. He now fixed his eye on the child, who, after seating the visitor, had returned to his corner on the floor, cutting out a paper clock. Père Antoine watched him attentively, while Jacques des Horloges and his wife kept silent, waiting for the priest to begin the conversation. Père Antoine’s fascination with little Péron held his gaze for several moments, and when he finally looked up, his face was grave. I have strange tidings," he said softly, glancing from Jacques to his wife. " M. de Bruneau has been arrested and will be condemned to death. " Michel stared at him in blank amazement, and madame uttered a cry and dropped her knitting-needles. The priest gestured toward the child on the floor, and the effect was immediate; both listeners hushed their agitation. I cannot understand," Jacques des Horloges said. " What was his offence? Not a plot against the king, surely?" " Yes, Père Antoine replied soberly, “It’s something along those lines, though I fear it’s an exaggerated charge fabricated by his enemies.” He was seized on Rue St. Denis, based on information supplied by a prominent ally of Albert de Luynes. Who is he?" asked Michel eagerly. | We had advanced a considerable distance, when I thought that I heard a commotion of some kind in front, and, at the same time, there was the sound of a horse's hoofs coming rapidly towards us. In the darkness, I could only discover an imperfect outline of a horse and rider as they approached me. I turned aside to make room, but the stranger reined in his horse as he came abreast of us. He barked an exclamation in Russian that slipped past my ears, so I prompted him to repeat it. You cannot go on!" he exclaimed, in an excited tone; "there is a small riot on the road. Some of the Streltsy chased one of their officers, captured him, and barred anyone from passing through their ranks. I am going back to the city for help. " " Will they murder him?" I asked, feeling that we ought to interfere. " No; they are going to take him to their own quarters," the stranger said, touching his horse with his spurs. I called after him to know if there was any short cut to the other road, which I had despised. He replied that he didn't know, but that a tavern a few yards ahead would have all the information I needed. Had the czarevna’s packet not been in my possession, I would have been willing to press through the rioters; yet I knew that handing that imperial missive to their hands would be a lamentable misfortune. Anticipating trouble and delay, I cursed my luck and proceeded toward the house the stranger had indicated. The long, low structure was hemmed in by a tall wall; while the front remained dark, a glow burned at its rear inside the courtyard, and the gate was ajar. Tossing the reins to Pierrot, I dismounted; as I approached the gateway, I peered into a wide, bare courtyard, dimly illuminated by the light pouring from an open door opposite. I struck the post with the hilt of my sword, but only the restless clatter of my own horse answered; turning back, I saw Pierrot attempting to calm the beast. As there was no response, I pushed open the gate, which squeaked angrily, as if the hinges were rusted. Crossing the court, I was approaching the open door, when the light was suddenly extinguished. My surprise stayed my foot, for I was left in total darkness, and without having seen anyone in the place. In another moment I advanced to the doorway and struck the post with my fist. I heard the sound of feet moving within, and bending forward, strained my eyes to penetrate the darkness. While I was doing this, someone leapt out from behind me, hurling me violently face‑down onto the step; before I could even cry out, the first assailant clamped my head to the stone, while a second pinched my arms. I strained desperately to free myself, yet was utterly powerless in the ruffians’ grip as they worked in silence, though I could still hear, muffled amid their movements, the clatter of many feet. At that moment I regretted my failure to heed Pierrot’s warnings and still hoped he might come to my aid—but the wall’s great height barred every view of the courtyard, even in daylight, and in the sheer darkness only an owl could have spotted anything. My mysterious attackers clearly had a pre‑planned scheme; without a word or consultation, they hefted me up—roughly—and dragged me inside the house. However, they did not stop there; as I went on, I heard a heavy door unlatch, and the shift in atmosphere made me feel I was once again outside. Then I realized I was being lifted into a carriage and could faintly hear the horses prancing as we set off at a speed that implied a superior road to the one that had led me to the ill‑fated spot. The cords binding my arms and legs ached sharply, and although my voice was muffled, I found even my breath becoming a struggle. My mind was clouded, preventing me from discerning the cause or consequences of my misfortune, yet I was profoundly anxious about the safety of the czarevna’s packet. Although their sole intent might have been robbery, they would inevitably find the papers and put them to use; yet I suspected from the outset that the packet itself was the source of my troubles, and I could not understand how I might be accused of carrying Sophia’s messages. Suddenly I remembered Homyak at the door of the czarevna's apartment, and knew myself for a blockhead. Von Gaden had openly harbored disdain for the pitiful dwarf, and I was aware that he was aligned with Vladimir Ramodanofsky, a prominent supporter of the Naryshkins. My carelessness had doomed me; I now doubted the rumour of the riotous Streltsi was true, fearing I had been lured into a trap as easily as the simplest fool. Poor Pierrot! I fancied his distress, and only hoped that his fate might not be worse than my own. Meanwhile, the packet still remained upon my person, and I lay helpless in the bottom of the carriage. On, on, we sped! What could be our destination? The cords cut more and more about my limbs, and my breath came with an effort. I felt that a few moments more of this would strangle me. I tried to wriggle free by contorting my entire body, but after a few spasmodic motions a captor delivered a sharp kick to my ribs, forcing me to remain motionless. The sense of suffocation was terrible, my chest crushed and my heart aching, and every movement felt like torture. I lost consciousness at the very edge of my endurance and knew nothing more until I came to myself on the floor of a small room, my eyes straining up at the low ceiling as morning light streamed in through a window opposite. At the first awakening I remembered nothing, and was vaguely astonished at my strange surroundings. Suddenly recalling what had happened, I pulled upright and felt an immediate stiffness and soreness throughout my body. The cords had been taken off, and my clothes hung open at my throat, leading me to suspect that reviving me had been a difficult task. Remembering the czarevna's packet, I felt for it, only to find it gone. I checked to see if I had been robbed, but to my astonishment, every last livre remained untouched—only my signet ring had vanished. My sword and pistols had shared the fate of the packet. It was not difficult to draw conclusions. Despite the czarevna’s precautions, I was tail‑chased out of the Kremlin and, as I could no longer deny, I fell victim—an easy target slipped into the enemy’s hands. My reflections were extremely bitter; not only had I failed to execute my trust, but was probably a ruined man. If this affair reached Versailles, it would scarcely enhance my credit, and if it proved as serious as I fear, it would cut my career short. I would never again expect to earn the confidence of Louvois—then essentially France’s prime minister—or that of my sovereign, for the great king Louis scrutinized every detail of affairs, and my ill‑fated gallantry would be unlikely to escape his eagle eye. As for the Czarevna Sophia, I was conscious of a miserable desire to escape from future encounter with that princess! I lay on the floor, slipping into a stupor born from both the ordeal I’d endured and the bleak reflections that haunted me. After a while I roused myself, realizing that the door was securely fastened, and went to the window to survey the view. So far above the ground that escape was impossible, I first felt my position hopeless as I looked down from the wing of the great house at the courtyard. It looked down upon a courtyard, and was in the wing of a large house. | 0.8 | Historical fiction | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay) | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay) | 72908 | 70502 | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay)_[Danny Deever]_1500_4_0.5 | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay)_[On the red staircase]_1500_16_0.5 |
Of a sudden all the deputies were in their places standing up, and a deep silence fell on the galleries, while outside the ringing bugles of the infantry sounded a flourish. Then a long round of applause burst forth—a dull, persistent applause from gloved hands. The ladies, who had risen, were applauding too, leaning on the shoulders of the deputies in order to see better. Standing in the diplomatic gallery and surrounded by her Ladies-in-Waiting, the Queen bowed in every direction, and the pearly whiteness of her face eclipsed the wooden background. She looked fresh and young and all serene under the brim of her yellow straw hat, adorned with a strawberry-coloured plume. And when the acclaim seemed at an end, and the Queen sat down rather above her ladies, the whole assembly was carried off by a wave of admiration for that poetic figure, and new applause, universal and deafening, again greeted the Queen. Excitement reigned everywhere. On the right aisle there were ladies distracted because they were under the diplomatic gallery and could not see the Queen. Those in the Speaker's gallery were happy; they could not see the King very well, to be sure, but they were within two paces of Her Majesty. To some of the spectators on the left aisle half of the performance was lost—the whole corps diplomatique in full uniform in the senators' gallery, with the wives of the Ambassadors and of the Italian Cabinet Ministers. From the central, the press, public, officers', and Government clerks' galleries, though far off, everything could be seen. There was a perpetual aiming of opera-glasses. The crowd, seized with nervousness, swayed and bent to right and left. Dialogues between reporters were overheard: Where was the German Ambassador? Ah, there he was, with his good-humoured face, his white moustache, and his soft eyes! That lady dressed in violet, with the large black eyes, behind Donna Vittoria Colonna, who could she be? Donna Lavinia Taverna, a Piombino. And all the women were in feverish agitation, names were whispered, scraps of comment on the gowns flew to and fro, whoever was most in evidence tried to be recognised by the Ministers' wives, by the Ambassadresses, by the Ladies-in-Waiting. An increasing murmur of questions and answers and subdued discussions rose in the air of the hall like the buzzing of a million flies. The King entered unexpectedly without the royal anthem being intoned. He appeared at the right-hand door in the midst of his household, of the Ministers, and of the ten deputies who had received him, and in three strides he was under the canopy. Two or three times he turned to the right and the left with the nervous abruptness of his quick, self-repressed nature. The members and the public hailed him, and he answered by motions of his gilded helmet, with its tall, waving white feather, while in his right hand he held a paper scroll. On the General's tunic which he wore were only his foreign military medals and the medal for bravery in the field. And in his close-fitting uniform, white collar, and tightest of trousers, as he stood under the overshadowing red dome with his helmet on his wrist in the attitude of a soldier at attention, he bore an unusually martial aspect, thin, brown, and strong, ever in readiness to mount on horseback, ever willing to sleep under a tent. He resembled one of those old pictures of a Commander-in-Chief, with proud, piercing eye and pale visage, clasping in one hand a rolled parchment on which the plan of a fortress is drawn. The old Prince of Savoia-Carignano, the King's uncle, fat and bald, placed himself at the right of the chair, on the arm of which he leant his flaccid and fatigued person, but he did not sit down from respect. The young Duke of Genoa, brother to the Queen and cousin to the King, took up his position at the Sovereign's left, while on the floor to the right was the group of Ministers and to the left the royal household. Out of the general silence rose the rather harsh voice of the King; and certainly the hearts of many of those politicians must have leapt at the recollection in that very assembly of another voice, slightly veiled, somewhat strident, a voice made for giving commands in battle, and that spoke the loyal words with which he sealed the national compact. And all the faces of the members had at once grown thoughtful; they remained motionless, with eyes fastened upon the King's. All of the women took to silence, as though struck by a sudden sense of reverence. In the deep quiet, in that stillness of a whole multitude, the respiration of the King was audible between one sentence and the next of the royal message. And the voice in which he spoke sounded like that paternal one; it had a certain explosiveness, certain peculiar accentuations, in its tone. The Queen listened intently without a smile from the diplomats' gallery, her handsome face bent downward and absorbed; the ladies were listening without the quiver of an eyelash; the whole Ambassadors' gallery had the smile that knows what is coming; the public galleries all round listened without losing a word; the deputies, standing up, listened, and every now and then something like a thrill of approval ran through the assembly. Twice the speech was interrupted by applause. At times a louder word seemed to wing its way, to soar up to the skylight: peace—_the administration of justice_—_financial retrenchment_. But suddenly the voice was lowered, as if the King disdained the final applause crowning his remarks, and he stopped short as if fatigued. The last words were muttered rather than spoken. He quickly took his helmet from the armchair where he had deposited it, while the audience shouted, 'Long live the King!' That rapt attention, however, had strained people's minds and imparted a sense of awe to them. The event of the day, which at first had seemed but a strange spectacle, now assumed larger proportions; the royal speech, on that sole occasion on which the constitutional Sovereign spoke in public declaring his will and intentions, became a solemn promise. A few of the most sensitive women had a little cold perspiration at the temples; others slapped their hands lightly with their fans, and with wandering eyes murmured, 'Beautiful, beautiful!' and the most romantic gazed fixedly at the Queen to observe her emotion. Then the swearing-in began. Old Depretis had advanced a few steps, and had read out the formula for the senators and deputies, scanning the words as if he wanted to imprint them on the minds of the listeners. The assembly of members and senators stood out in black and white from the bottom to the top of the sections, an assembly of energetic heads and puny heads, of scintillating eyes and eyes of dead fish, of bald, shining skulls, and of heavy, leonine manes. Narrow on the first bench, the gathering spread out to a wide semicircle on the last, and it seemed as though the space was all too small for the eruptive force of those wills and those brains. The King measured the nation's representatives with a glance. The first senator, the Duke of Genoa, took the oath in naval fashion in a vibrant tone, with a vigorous gesture; he was applauded. Then came eight new senators; there was a stir at the swearing of allegiance by the great Piedmontese Latinist, who was a clerical. What interested the audience most was the swearing-in of the deputies. Depretis said their name and surname and waited a brief moment, and from a bench a weak voice or a strong one would respond: 'I swear!' In that moment of expectation breathing was suspended; the King's eyes sought out him who was to swear and watched him take the oath. The patriot veterans swore in military style, laying their bare hand on their breast: their faith was proved. The lawyers took the oath in the high voice of persons wishing to attract attention. When he came to his own name, Depretis drew his right hand from his Ministerial uniform coat, and extended it as he took the oath; the assembly laughed at the astute old man who was its leader. The Minister continued to tell off the names, and agitated as well as tranquil answers were given, now as if issuing from the bowels of the earth, now as if descending from the skylight. The old Parliamentarians took the oath simply putting out a hand and repeating the words in an undertone; the radical deputies, who had long been preparing for the ordeal, swore in extreme haste, as if to get rid of a load. | But I know that I have a beautiful and unforgettable place in your heart. I have been your only lover. " He spoke with a desperate sadness in his eyes and face, in every expression and gesture. "Is it true, that I am dear to you, Maria?" "It is true, as you say, you are dear to me," she replied desolately. Marco drew her to himself and kissed her on the lips chastely. She returned the kiss. But to both the kiss seemed to have the savour of death. "Let us live together till death," he resumed sadly. "Together, Marco, together? To reunite when we no longer have love as the excuse of our betrayal, nor passion as an excuse for the sorrow we are inflicting on others! Why? Why?" "Because nothing else remains," he said desolately. "Is there really nothing else, Marco?" she cried, wringing her hands. "Really, Maria, nothing else. " "And that unfortunate at Rome? That unfortunate Emilio? What has he done to be so disgraced? And why must I bring about his misfortune?" she cried, with a sob, hiding her face in her hands. "Pity him; let us pity him," said Marco; "he is an unfortunate. " "He will curse me. " "He will be right to curse you, but he will also be wrong. All are right and all are wrong confronted with love, Maria. "And Vittoria? Vittoria? the unlucky Vittoria? What will become of her? What will she say of me? Marco, think, think, what a horrible business! " "She will curse us justly," resumed Marco, with deep sadness; "she will be right, like Emilio, to curse us, but confronted with love she will be wrong. " "Who will console Vittoria, Marco?" "I have tried to console her, but she despised my consolations. Like all exigent people who ask too much from life, Vittoria has only gathered delusion and bitterness. " "You promised her everything. " "I offered her everything, and she repulsed it. What she demanded was not in my power, will never be in my power, and I shall never see her again. " "Who will console and comfort Emilio?" "He is a man; he will forget you. " "And Vittoria?" "Religion will be able to do much for her. She will forget me. " "But Emilio and Vittoria were not expecting this from us and from existence. " "The fault isn't mine, and isn't ours. If we are to blame we did it for one supreme and invincible reason, which is love. " "My God! my God!" she kept on lamenting, sobbing without tears. "There is nothing else for us to do, but to live together till death. " "Nothing else? Nothing else? Suppose we were to try again? Suppose we were to return?" The voice was as desperate as the proposal. "Why do you want to try again, Maria?" he asked, with infinite desolation; "do you wish to go to your husband who hates and loves you? Do you wish to give yourself to him who is horrified at what you did? Do you wish instead to stop in your home as a stranger and an enemy? Do you wish to live and give yourself to him, as a courtesan whom he pays and despises? Do you wish to live, if you refuse yourself to him, in an inferno? To-morrow he will hate you, and you will be forced either to fly again ridiculously or become the lover of Gianni Provana, and afterwards of another Gianni Provana, descending to every abyss to make something of your life. " "No, no!" she cried, at the height of moral nausea. "How can I try again with Vittoria? Must I return and fall at the feet of my wife, simulating a passion I do not feel? Must I play a comedy, I who despise a lie? Could I ever take my wife in my arms like you? Oh, she knows, perhaps, and understands; at any rate she would soon understand, that I was lying and deceiving her. Do you know that I inspire her with repulsion? Do you know that she neither wants me as a husband, a companion, or a friend? Do you know that she wants me as a lover? Can I be the lover of Vittoria, Maria? I can't, there, I can't! If I returned to Rome, if I re-entered Piazzo Fiore, I should only make Vittoria more unhappy. In desperation I should hurl myself into conviviality. You can't wish the death of your dignity, nor I that of my honour. " "It is true, it is true!" she exclaimed, falling back in the seat as if about to faint. "Courage, courage, Maria," he said sweetly. A great silence, a great shadow, an ineffable solitude was around them in that funereal wood. "But couldn't we go on as we did up to yesterday, each in our own way?" she asked in a weak voice. "Where, where, Maria?" he asked, with the shadow of a melancholy smile. "I don't know ... anywhere ... everywhere," she said vaguely, "each our own way, as up to yesterday. " "We met yesterday," he said sweetly. "Let us separate to-day and resume our way. " "We should meet to-morrow." And his voice was very sweet and sad. "Do you think so, Marco? Do you think so?" "It is fate. Maria, it was fate our meeting yesterday; our fate would be meeting to-morrow. A will which we are ignorant of, which is outside us, which acts on us while it is foreign to us, has reunited us yesterday, and would reunite us to-morrow. Let us accept it, Maria. " "But what is this will, Marco?" she said, seized by a sudden fear. "Maria," he said gravely, "you know, you have known, that passion is outside the usual limits of life, you have known and seen that it forces souls and persons beyond all laws and duties, beyond all vows. You have seen and known that it exalts and multiplies life. Well, Maria, I believe that when once the ordinary limits of life have been passed over, it is extremely difficult to turn back. I believe that when duties are forgotten, vows unloosed, laws broken, it is extremely difficult for people to re-enter the social orbit, to resume their proper place, and to repair their conscience. I believe that for a life which has touched the heights of passion, it is impossible to descend to the great, cold, silent depths. " All that he said was reflected sadly in its truth and irreparableness. "Then," she interrupted, "then whoever has sinned, in punishment for his sin must continue to sin. " "Yes, Maria; sin, but without fascination. Sin is a punishment in itself. I believe, I am sure, that this is punishment. " A heavy silence fell upon them. The woman's head was bowed, and she had crossed her hands over her knees. There was not a breath of air in that atmosphere of a cemetery. "At home they will say: '_ She always loved him, and always lied in denying that she loved him_.' " "They will say that," admitted Marco sadly. "Your wife will say so, Marco," Maria continued monotonously, "'_ Marco never forgot her, and always lied_.' " "Certainly she will say that. " "And it will all be false, Marco, because we shall be again without passion, without love, without rapture. " "That is so, Maria. " "Shall we rehearse our comedy together, Marco," she asked mournfully—"the comedy of love? Couldn't we live like two companions, like two friends? Say, couldn't we live so, at least without lying?" "No, dear, no," he resumed, with a weak, sorrowful smile, "it isn't possible. You are a woman; I am a man. We are still young. What you say is impossible. " "O Marco, without love?" she murmured, turning her head aside in shame. He was silent, feeling that she was right. But he could not deceive her. "Even this, dear lady mine, is a punishment. " "O Marco, Marco!" she cried, leaning her head on his shoulder, and hiding her face in his breast. He pressed her to himself sweetly, and kissed her on the eyes, which were red without weeping, and upon her pale face and lips. "At last," he said, "we shall find some sweetness in this expiation. My arms know you, Maria, and my breast is a haven for you. I know your arms, and I know I can sleep peacefully, if not ecstatically, on your heart. " "The days will be long and silent," she murmured, rising, passing her arm under Marco's, as they went down the straight path together. "Yes, Maria," he replied. "Our souls will do nothing but secretly regret that which is no more. " "Yes, it is true, Maria. " "Happy we shall never be again. " "Never again, Maria." "And so we shall go on till death, Marco," she concluded, with an accent of infinite melancholy. "Together, Maria." "Towards death. " "Step for step together. | 1 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao | 46517 | 50318 | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao_[La conquista di Roma. English]_1500_9 | Scarfoglia, Matilde Serao_[After the Pardon]_1500_47 |
You may imagine the consternation of our friends, the plebes. The whole affair erupted with such sudden, horrific intensity that they were left utterly stunned and powerless. The sheriff’s gun looked enormous and inky‑black in menace, so formidable that it left every one of them helpless. Even Texas, hailed as the hero of a hundred battles, did not even move a hand. Texas had learned from experience that a robbery was simply a robbery—something that couldn’t be resisted any more than a sudden strike of lightning. Thus, even with a large revolver tucked in each hip pocket, he simply raised his hands and stared. It was an awful situation. The unfortunate lads needed a moment to fully grasp the horror. There they were—cadets, drifting aimlessly through the outlawed hours of the night. There was a sheriff, his full legal authority backing him, and he arrested them as if they were lunatics. He would take them to jail. Keep them there all night! At dawn, the reveille rang and the sheriff sternly warned, “Don’t you fellows make a move there.” I won't take any nonsense. Get those handcuffs out. " The wretched plebes were too stunned to disobey the order. Indian collapsed to the ground, wailing in agony, while the others lay in a state of utter collapse. Two men stepped forward to cuff them, and the prisoners instantly spotted Bull Harris and Gus Murray’s triumphant smiles. That insult proved too much; Mark Mallory stepped back, his face flashing. Don't you come near me, you wretch!" he cried. "'I'll'—the sheriff swung his gun until the muzzle stared straight into Mark's face." Steady!" said he. " Don't be a fool. " Mark realized that fussing was pointless, so he bit his lip and kept quiet. He calmly extended his hands and let Bull fasten the irons around him. Bull had never before experienced a joy like that in his entire life. The other six of the Seven yielded, allowing themselves to be secured; only Texas refused to surrender and kept protesting. “I’m no lunatic, Mr. Sheriff,” he said. What's the use o' this hyar fool business? I'm a ca――――" "Shut up! " Mark was the one who spoke it, delivering the words with such fierce emphasis that Texas shut his teeth as quickly as a steel trap. “You are not lunatics,” the sheriff observed, stepping forward to ensure their hands were securely cuffed. But you certainly look a lot like it. Say, Mr. Hamilton! " The seven prisoners instantly recognized the man who answered as the reporter they had fooled. Their hearts sank within them at that. " Are these the fellows?" demanded the sheriff. " They're the ones, of course," the other laughed. The faces and clothes are unmistakable. That settles it," said the sheriff. " Forward, march!" They were just two or three miles from Highland Falls, their destination. Fortunately, they avoided passing through West Point, when the plebes dreaded being identified. The sheriff avoided drawing a crowd, so he lingered in the woods, skirting the buildings before emerging onto the road behind the post. At that moment, the unfortunate plebes were nearly at the end of their journey. The silent party tramped on rapidly. The buildings of the little town began to loom ahead. A scant few lamps flickered, yet a passing stranger shouted, “They’re lunatics!” and almost instantly the windows sprang open, and faces stared in. Just then they reached a modest square building off the main street, and the sheriff lunged ahead, unlocked its door, and shoved the prisoners inside. Soon after, the heavy door clanged, and that was all. Having secured them, the sheriff kindly removed the painful handcuffs. He held back until he had meticulously searched them, stripping the Texan of his weapons. He shoved the men into a solitary cell, locked and barred the heavy door, warned them to keep quiet and behave themselves, then left them in silence and dismay. At roughly the same hour the young reporter hurried to the telegraph station to transmit his report, while Bull, thanked by the sheriff, led his three companions in high spirits toward their favorite watering hole to toast their glorious triumph. The sheriff warned the jailer to keep the most stringent guard, and then, sighing in relief, went home to bed. As for the Seven, it’s still easier to describe what they did. With one accord they sank to the floor of the musty cell and stared at each other in sheer consternation and disgust. Nobody spoke, for none had anything to say. They were simply thrust into a tin‑hat of confusion, as the saying goes; stunned, helpless, and hopeless—nothing more. They stayed seated that way for about two solid hours. During that time, Indian had gone to sleep, thereby setting a good example for “the Farmer.” The Parson was heard shouting “By Zeus!” while Dewey let out a single, disconsolate “b’gee,” neither utterance even evoking the memory of a story. Thus concludes the full account of what transpired during that bleak interval. However, such mental states do not endure, especially among the young. Mark decided it would be worthwhile to test the cell, ensuring that its doors and windows were firmly secured. It was a rural prison, typically built on a tight budget and usually old and unreliable. Mark stood up and began pacing back and forth. His example set the others aflame, and before long the room resembled a menagerie, with half a dozen restless inmates sniffing at the bars. They shook the door savagely; it felt solid, and the only result of their effort was to bring the cross and the sleepy jailer into the cell. Keep quiet, you," he growled, "and go to sleep, will you?" The prisoners slipped back into silence, the man walked away, and the examination proceeded. The cell’s floors and walls were solid masonry, unyielding. Mark had heard that prisoners had dug their way out using tools like spoons. But the unfortunate plebes had no spoon at all, and even an attempt to dig would have taken longer than the hours left before the morning gun. It was just two o'clock by Mark's watch. The window was the only other place that seemed to offer even the faintest glimmer of hope. It was large enough to let moonlight spill in, bathing the cell as brightly as daylight. The cell was also reinforced with heavy iron bars that resisted even Mark’s strongest efforts. And so that hope, also, was futile. The Seven slipped into a corner and spoke of their dire circumstances in hushed, mournful tones. It was evident that they could not escape. It was obvious that if they didn’t, they would lose their cadet status the following day. Simply put, the proposition was startlingly clear and dreadful. They say hope eternally blooms within the human breast. They had barely settled their argument when Texas sprang up, shouting suddenly, and immediately set about unwinding the lasso that still twined around his waist. The sheriff deemed it unnecessary to unhook the lasso, having no idea how a prisoner might even put it to use. For that matter, Texas had no companions, unless he intended to hang himself. However, Texas had a trick worth double its value; quietly and swiftly he uncoiled the lasso, and upon finishing, folded it twice, then twice again, and again. What on earth are you going to do?" whispered Mark. " Show you," chuckled Texas. " Look a-yere! " He leapt toward the window and wrapped the rope around a bar. Then the others saw! One man couldn’t pry the iron strip loose, but the seven men together could. Ah! Swift as a flash, they surged forward to aid him. Texas was very slow and methodical about it, exasperatingly so, for the jailer might peer in at any moment. | "But I want to go now. " " "Yes, yes," they said, "La Boca." Yes, but at present. Si, si." He removed his hat for them and rushed along the pier toward the Englishman, who was still supervising the packing of the jars. Do you intend to go to La Boca? he asked. " I wish I'd known, but oh well. I thought you wanted one of the fish’s hands. I could have sent you to La Boca an hour earlier. What are you looking for in La Boca? I have an appointment at that location. Oh, with whom is your appointment? A friend," Hi said. The man paused to speak with a packer, then turned back to Hi. Who was the person you had an appointment with? A friend. " " Ah," the man said, "what is your friend's name?" I ask only because I know La Boca, and you might have to be disembarked on either its northern or southern side. Hi said he would be at the inn. Which inn?" the man said. " Is there more than a single one? Hi asked. " Is your companion English? What's his name?" " "Excuse me," Hi asked, "could you take me to La Boca?" “Let me see,” the man said, “did you mention both your name and your friend’s name?” "Jones," said Hi, desperation echoing in his voice. Well, Mr. Jones, the man said, “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see whether that boat—once here—has already gone.” Are you going to visit your brother in La Boca? No." " Oh, I see. The connection isn’t that of brothers, only that of friends. I can't recall the name of Jones in La Boca. What is he up to there? Hi said, “He has only just gone there.” Ah, a newcomer—just like you. Here stands the ship destined for La Boca. He spoke to the boat’s master, who was fastening what was called a fish to the yard of the sail. The man explained that the individual would escort you to La Boca. He is simply about to begin. If you’d come by my side on the way, I could have shipped you off in one of the vegetable boats hours earlier. Give him no more than two pesetas. By the way, where will you be lodging while you’re in La Boca, Mr. Jones? If you or your friend wishes any of these earthenware jars, I can obtain them at a price no one else can beat. Which initial did you say was yours? H," Hi said. " And your friend's?" " R," Hi answered. " The man said, “Mr. H. and Mr. R. Jones.” Did you say where you're stopping? Since I can arrange comfortable lodging in a boarding‑house, it will be cheaper for you than staying at any hotel. At that moment the boatman invited Hi aboard. Where are you stopping?" the man called. " Where did you say you would be stopping? I would like to drop by this evening to see you, if you’re free. It is often remarked that Englishmen should remain together. Just as Hi was about to reply, the boom jolted, hurling his hat into the well. The boat had slipped away. Hi thought, “What a curious beast.” I never knew of a man who asked questions like that before. I shouldn’t assume he’s a detective stationed to stop passengers from leaving the city. If that's the case, it's highly probable I'll be stopped at La Boca. If that devil sends a signal, I’ll almost certainly encounter him at the pier and be followed. For now, I'm off. That's the main thing. But I've simply wasted hours. His boat drifted close to Giordano. He hunched over his carpentry, fully absorbed, as he slipped a lash across the joint. He didn't plan to set out for another hour," Hi thought. I’m glad I tried to find someone who could start sooner. Chigo, the master of the boat, together with the boatman and young Luigi, hauled the new striped sails up, causing the vessel to lean forward and slice through the water. They plated bread, onions, wine, water, and small translucent fish, all meant to be eaten raw. They invited Hi to their feast, and everyone enjoyed breakfast together. Following breakfast, as the ship still raced southward, Hi entertained himself by peering into the shallows, watching the fish and the spectrum of rainbow‑colored weeds. Soon, something that looked like a chunk of the bay’s bottom clumsily surfaced beside the boat, flipped over, and burst from the water as a white, blunt shape whose mouth clicked like a cat’s. The click fell short by at least two feet, as the thing did not aim very well. It leapt over, scraped the boat’s side with a slow, rasping motion, and vanished. Hi said, “A shark, by George.” The boatman laughed at his scare, and the master warned him not to lean over the side. Soon after, Hi realized that La Boca was no longer drawing any closer. Before the wind eased, it had been pulling them forward, so they had to take a brief board out to sea. He considered it a complete bore. If this goes on, I won’t reach La Boca until midday. But I'm going to do it anyway. The wind, which had been pushing ahead, now turned a few degrees to the west and blew away entirely. What's the matter?" Hi asked. " Hold on for the wind, the master said. Will we have to wait long? Sometimes it takes half an hour, sometimes an hour. Could we row over to the shore? Hi asked. " The boatman said we didn't have any oars. Just an oar and a boat hook. There was no alternative but to wait while the sun rose from the sea and grew hotter. Hi tried to gauge how far away La Boca was. It seemed almost within reach across that briefly glittering stretch of sea. He estimated the distance at three miles—or perhaps four. The sea and the boat slipped into a hushed repose. " We'll be at it for hours like this," Hi thought. And they were. The hardest thing arrived an hour later, as they lay still. Hi watched a boat inching closer to shore, gliding steadily toward La Boca beneath its sweeping sails. A certain aspect of the helmsman’s posture felt oddly recognizable to Hi, who stared at the ship with growing envy. Is that Giordano?" he asked. " Giordano, si," they answered. She was assisted by more than just the sweeps. She outperformed in light airs, and, being much farther inshore, she avoided the northward current that swept across the outer bay. "Why are we now farther from La Boca than we were before?" he thought. We are drifting back. She will arrive a few hours before us, and I could have been with her if only I had waited a little longer. He thought, “I had been an ass.” Had I stayed with Giordano, I would be almost there by now. Patience was the only remedy, a mere substitute. Hi watched Giordano’s boat edge along, one after another. After what felt like hours, he noticed that the men aboard Giordano’s boat had laid out their sweeps and were tending the sails. Chigo, having watched for something of that sort, set aside his fender‑making. He said, “Here’s the breeze.” The breeze drifted toward them as the water darkened beneath its glide. Softly, the boat set off again toward the south. Just after ten o’clock they began to draw toward the fishermen’s and market‑gardeners’ settlement at the mouth of the Miamia River. An arrangement of small lime‑washed houses, each topped with bright red tiles. The mission church was marked by its trio of bells. At the mouth of the river stood a harbor built from green‑heart timber beams, coated in red enamel to guard against worms. Hi was absorbed in his thoughts, charting out his ride. Looking up, he saw that Giordano’s boat had not entered the harbor but was lying along the coast to the south. Peering over the dock, he saw Pituba soldiers watching the boat’s approach. Among them stood a white man who appeared to be an officer. Exactly as I had feared, Hi murmured to himself. The man on the city pier was, in truth, a detective. I am currently shadowed and about to be questioned. He looked at this officer. He disliked his appearance entirely. He appeared brusque and ill‑humored. A bite from that lipless mouth would be worse than its bark," he thought, "though the bark has a curse in it. | 0.4 | Adventure stories | Fitch, Clarke | Masefield, John | 68041 | 69339 | Fitch, Clarke_[The West Point Rivals: or, Mark Mallory's Stratagem]_1500_14_0.7 | Masefield, John_[The Living Animals of the World, Volume 2 (of 2) A Popular Natural History]_1500_26_0.8 |
"Here," says I, "you must take us to be countrymen, and that he and I understand both the same method. Now look, this word, which ends where you see the gap, stands for honoured, and this next for sir, the next for I, and so on; and we both using the same method, and seeing each other's words, are able to open our minds at a distance." I had finished what I intended and continued my tale; “But,” one of the colambs interjected, “Mr. Peter, though this issue deserves careful thought, I see how you proceed—by agreeing that each stroke in this diagram represents the word honoured and so forth. Yet, didn’t you note the word Arndrumnstake there?” No," says I, smiling; "but they could. "— Says he, "You say you agree what strokes shall stand for one word, and what for another; but then how could your countrymen, who never knew what strokes you would set down for Arndrumnstake, know that your strokes meant that very country? for that you could not have agreed upon before either of you knew there was any such place. " I was at a loss, unwilling to use more words than necessary, on how to answer this skeptical questioner; and discussing syllables and letters would only have confused the matter further, so I gave him the quickest explanation: each word is made up of one or more distinct sounds, and since some of these sounds recur in different words, we agreed to tie our strokes to individual sounds rather than whole words; these sounds, whether more or fewer, combine to produce the particular words. For instance, I said that “Arn” is one sound, “drumn” another, and “stake” another; knowing these words as distinct sounds lets us pair them in any order to create any word we like, so when he hears those three sounds together he knows I mean Arndrumnstake and can say it, even though he has never heard the entire word spoken before. I have some little notion of what you mean," says he, "but not clear enough to express myself upon it; and so go on! go on! And pray what did you do about the reeds?" I then resuming my discourse where I left off, completed my narration that night; but I could perceive the water in my father's eyes when I came to the account of Youwarkee's fall and the condition I took her up in. When I had done, they adjusted the order of their flight, for avoiding confusion, one to go so long before another, and the junior colambs to go first. In the morning the only sound came from the gripsacks; the men were all lined up, ready to depart with their respective colambs. After the compliments were exchanged, the junior colamb rose, walked half a mile into the wood where his gripsack waited, then proceeded to the level. The next gripsack was ready to signal as soon as the first was removed, which prompted the second colamb to move, ensuring each colamb kept a quarter‑mile ahead of the one before. My father was the last but two; but I shall never forget his tenderness at parting with his daughter and grandchildren, and I may say with myself too; for by this time he had a high opinion of me. Patty went with my father, she so much resembling my wife, that my father said he should still have his two daughters in his sight, having her with him. At parting, I presented Nasgig with a broadsword; and showing him the use of it, with many expressions of gratitude on his part, and respect on mine, he took flight after the rest. Peter finds his stores low—Sends Youwarkee to the ship—Receives an invitation to Georigetti's court. _ In the first few days after our company left, Youwarkee shed tears now and then over the loss of her father and sister; I tried not to notice them lest I appear to oppose what I truly believed was a deeper testament to her sweetness, but the sorrow gradually faded, and after we settled our affairs we found comfort in our renewed ability to converse with the tenderness that had always marked us. She told me nothing in the world but her concern for so tender a father, and the fear of displeasing me if she disobliged him, should have kept her so long from me; for her life had never been so sweet and serene as with me and her children; and if she was to begin it again, and choose her settlement and company, it should be with me in that arkoe. I told her though I was entirely of her opinion for avoiding a life of hurry, yet I loved a little company, if for nothing else but to advance topics for discourse, to the exercise of our faculties; but I then agreed it was not from mere judgment I spoke, but from fancy. " But, Youwee," says I, "it will be proper for us to see what our friends have left us, that we don't want before the time comes about again." Then she took her part, and I mine; and having finished, we found they would hold out pretty well, and that the first thing to be done was to get the oil of the beast-fish. When we came to examine the brandy and wine, I found they had suffered greatly; so I told Youwarkee, when she could spare time, she should make another flight to the ship. " And," says I, "pray look at all the small casks of wine or brandy, or be they what they will, if they are not above half-full, or thereabouts, they will swim, and you may send them down." I asked her to send a fire‑shovel and tongs, adding that there were plenty of sturdy ropes rolled up between the decks – send those too – and anything else she thought we might need, such as plates, bowls, cutlasses and pistols all hanging in the cabin; I presumed this might be the last cargo, since the ship couldn’t hold them all forever. Youwarkee, who loved a jaunt to the ship mightily, sat very attentive to what I said, and told me, if I pleased, she would go the next day; to which I agreed. She stayed on the trip until I became uneasy, having been gone for almost four days, and I feared an accident; but she returned safely, telling me she had packed everything she could, and anyone who had seen her fleet arrive would have assumed it carried a good cargo—since it took me three weeks to land and haul the goods up to the grotto—leaving us with so many items that we were forced to pile them atop each other to the very top of the room. It began to draw towards long days again, when one morning, in bed, I heard the gripsack. I waked Youvarkee, and told her of it; and-we both got up, and were going to the level, when we met six glumms in the wood, with a gripsack before them, coming to the grotto. The trumpeter, it seems, had been there before; but the others, who seemed to be of a better rank, had not. We saluted them, and they us; and Youwarkee knowing one of them, we desired them to walk to the grotto. They told us they came express from Georigetti's palace, with an invitation to me and Youwarkee to spend some time at his court. | " The captain again reached out his hand and, as soon as Bob had grasped if, said: "That's one of the finest things I ever heard, and I'll accept the suggestion. "Son," he added, turning toward Jack whose face was flushed, "you also have a good brother, so we might as well make it a trio." All I have to say is that if you have a brother as good as mine, you’ve got one as good as they make," Jack grinned. The captain, after a brief pause, said, “I’m not going to try to thank you,” and both boys noticed his eyes dimming with tears. There are some things that go beyond thanks, and I know you understand how I feel. "We certainly do, sir," Jack assured him. During this voyage, you are my esteemed guests. I’ve already secured a seat for you at my table. "That’s very kind of you, sir, and we sincerely appreciate it," Bob assured him. Jack pleaded, “But please keep this a secret from everyone.” "I refuse," the captain said, smiling. Somehow the truth slipped out, and before the voyage began, to their dismay, the crew and passengers hailed them as heroes. Despite everything, the trip was truly enjoyable. The weather was ideal, and the captain took great pleasure in guiding them around the ship while answering their numerous questions. They, in turn, confided the purpose of their journey to him, and he was greatly surprised to learn that their laughter had set them on that mission. "Alaska is a vast land," he told them, "and during the winter it’s an extremely harsh place, let me make that clear." Do you think a trip up the Yukon would be dangerous? Bob posed his question to him. At this time of year, a trip like that would be decisively dangerous—if not outright foolhardy—but with a reliable native companion the risk would, of course, be considerably lower. So, do you think we can get one? I guess there’s no doubt—if you can afford it. The price is quite steep these days. I'm sure my father would want us to have a guide and would be willing to pay whatever is appropriate. By all means, go ahead and do it. Do you know someone we could enlist? I don’t have a personal connection myself, but I know someone out there who can point me to the right guy, and I’ll take care of it. "That’s very good of you," the captain interrupted, “but I don’t need any thanks.” You’ve forgotten the debt I owe to you two. A few days later, in the late afternoon, the ship steamed up to its wharf at Nome. "Wow, this city is something else," Jack proclaimed as he stood with Bob and the captain in the pilot house. "It is the largest in Alaska," the captain assured them. How many people live in the town? Bob asked. " The last census recorded a population of roughly 2,600, and I suspect that figure has hardly changed. The captain offered them a place aboard as his guests while the ship stayed in port, and they happily accepted. The ship will be docked for three days, and with little else on my agenda, we can use that time to work on getting your outfit in shape together. "It’ll be fine as long as you can spare the time," Bob assured him. The man laughed, “It’ll keep me from getting into any mischief.” Wouldn’t it be wise to try to find someone who knew my uncle? You see, he was here for several weeks and must have become acquainted with someone who could tell us where he had started from,” Jack suggested. Sure, I can name the exact man you should visit. If he ever became acquainted with anyone in town, the odds were a hundred‑to‑one that it would be Pete Slinger. Pete may be a bit of a character, but he’s just as reliable and steadfast. Nobody in Nome—a man, a woman, or a child—fails to know Pete well enough to call him by his first name, and Pete himself can give you the life story of almost anyone who has spent more than two days in town over the last decade. Is he Irish?" Bob asked. " He was both Irish and French. What is his occupation? Jack asked. " He runs a general store that stocks everything from toothpicks to second‑hand pulpits. Bob observed that he should get involved in some business. He does. He looks like a tramp, but I have no doubt he has a good‑sized stash saved up for a rainy day. We’ll head over to see him right after supper tonight. As the three friends strolled up the town’s main street that evening, they were surprised to discover it was almost indistinguishable from the familiar towns of northern Maine. Apart from a few Eskimos, the population was predominantly French Canadian, with a modest sprinkling of Americans. Jack laughed, “Gee, I expected to see polar bears roaming the streets.” "The captain added, 'And I suppose the reindeers are pulling the pungs.'"} "Sure thing," Jack assured him, and everyone laughed. "Well, here we are," the captain remarked as they halted before one of the street’s most prominent buildings. This is Pete's establishment. As the boys entered, the store was already full of several men and a few women, but the moment the proprietor caught sight of the captain, he immediately dropped a sugar scoop back into the barrel and rushed over, shoving his customers aside. "Faith, you’re a sight for sore eyes," he cried as he grasped the captain’s hands with both of them. "Honestly, I'm glad to see you again," the captain laughed. I would like you to meet my two friends, Bob and Jack Lakewood. The Irishman—a short, wiry man no taller than five‑foot‑two and weighing under a hundred‑twenty pounds—stared at the two boys for a full minute before speaking. “Don't keep trying to tell me that they're the byes who saved Frank,” he said finally. "Indeed, they are," the captain assured him. Silently, the small man wrapped his arms around Bob’s neck, embraced him warmly, and pressed kisses to both cheeks. Then, after freeing him, he treated Jack just as he had. "The store’s there, the house’s there—bless my heart. The whole town’s there, yes, with all of Canada thrown in," he cried. Turning to the bewildered onlookers, he shouted, “Did you hear that?” These are the boys who saved Captain Frank when his ship went down. Why are you standing there looking like a bunch of dummies? Come up here for this, and shake hands with them – the sons of your mothers. The people didn’t need a second invitation; moments later the boys were exchanging handshakes and quietly offering their thanks. "Get out of here, all of you, and let me talk with my friends," the storekeeper ordered, and the boys were amazed at how calmly and quickly they obeyed. Bob said, “Please, we won’t meddle in your business.” Interfere nuttin'. “They’ll all be back inside an hour,” the man assured him as he led them back to a corner of the shop that had been set up as an office. "Sit down with you and tell me all about it," he ordered. Bob gave him a full account of the wreck, doing his best to keep both himself and Jack out of it, and when he finished the storekeeper turned to Captain Blake and said, “They're modest, as well as brave, and that makes a mighty good combination. Let me tell you…” I’ve heard of the Canucks down toward Seattle who took Frank and the byes in, but I’ve never seen them. Believe me, they're going to get a good present from old Pete. Can't you see I’m busy at the minute? This final utterance was directed at a man who had just entered the shop, noisily drumming on the counter to attract attention. Without a word he turned and went out. | 0.4 | Adventure stories | Paltock, Robert | Wyman, L. P. (Levi Parker) | 51967 | 74044 | Paltock, Robert_[The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins, Complete (Volumes 1 and 2)]_1500_60_0.2 | Wyman, L. P. (Levi Parker)_[The Lakewood boys in the frozen North]_1500_7_0.9 |
They watched them prepare for bed—and I could hear much giggling and comment and many questions, all of which culminated, by and by, in a chorus of shrieking laughter. That climax, as I learned next morning, was over the Blight's hot-water bag. Never had their eyes rested on an article of more wonder and humor than that water bag. By and by, the feminine members came back and we sat around the fire. Despite someone entering the kitchen, Mart was still absent, and the wary glance Mollie gave Buck as she left the room led me to conclude that the newcomer was her lover Dave. Pretty soon the old man yawned. " Well, mammy, I reckon this stranger's about ready to lay down, if you've got a place fer him. " " Git a light, Buck," said the old woman. Buck got a light—a chimneyless, smoking oil-lamp—and led me into the same room where the Blight and my little sister were. Their heads were covered up, but the bed in the gloom of one corner was shaking with their smothered laughter. Buck pointed to the middle bed. " I could get by without that light, Buck, I said, and my haughty, abrupt tone sparked a muffled shriek from under the bedclothes in the corner, prompting Buck to flee swiftly. Preparations for bed are simple in the mountains—they were primitively simple for me that night. Being in knickerbockers, I merely took off my coat and shoes. Presently somebody else stepped into the room and the bed in the other corner creaked. Silence for a while. Then the door opened, and the head of the old woman was thrust in. " Mart!" she said coaxingly; "git up thar now an' climb over inter bed with that ar stranger. " That was Mart at last, over in the corner. Mart turned, grumbled, and, to my great pleasure, swore that he wouldn't. The old woman waited a moment. " Mart," she said again with gentle imperiousness, "git up thar now, I tell ye—you've got to sleep with that thar stranger. " She closed the door and with a snort Mart piled into bed with me. I gave him plenty of room and did not introduce myself. A brief, dark hush fell—the bed’s trembling beneath the raucous laughter of the astonished, thrilled but unmoved young women in the dark corner to my left—and then the door opened again. This time the hired man came, and I realized the difficulty lay in the fact that neither Mart nor Buck wanted to share a bed with him—and likewise, neither of them was willing to let me join. A long silence and then the boy Buck slipped in. The hired man delivered himself with the intonation somewhat of a circuit rider. " I've been a-watchin' that star thar, through the winder. Sometimes hit moves, then hit stands plum' still, an' ag'in hit gits to pitchin'." The hired man must have been touching up mean whiskey himself. Meanwhile, Mart seemed to be having spells of troubled slumber. He would snore gently, accentuate said snore with a sudden quiver of his body and then wake up with a climacteric snort and start that would shake the bed. This was repeated several times, and I began to think of the unfortunate Tom who was "fitified." Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself, and I waited apprehensively for each snorting climax to see if fits were a family failing. They were not. Peace overcame Mart and he slept deeply, but not I. The hired man began to show symptoms. He would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds, _quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and of religious conversion, in which he feared he was not so great. Twice he said aloud: "An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of 'em have said a word if I'd been killed stone-dead." Twice he said it almost weepingly, and now and then he would groan appealingly: "O Lawd, have mercy on my pore soul! " Fortunately those two tired girls slept—I could hear their breathing—but sleep there was little for me. When the troubled soul with the hoe rose and staggered to the porch’s water bucket to soothe whatever fever or burning was inside him, he fell quiet. I awoke before day. The dim light at the window showed an empty bed—Buck and the hired man were gone. Mart was slipping out of the side of my bed, but the girls still slept on. I watched Mart, supposing that by following him I might glimpse what, perhaps, is the fundamental hallmark of American society—from its very bedrock—a chivalrous respect for women, as one encounters it across the West and the Southern hills. Mart thought I was asleep. In the corner stood two creatures I was sure he had never seen—and never would, since he’d arrived too late the previous night and was departing again too soon—two angels straight from heaven whose very presence could not have sparked my curiosity any more than his. But not once did Mart turn his eyes, much less his face, toward the corner where they were—not once, for I watched him closely. And when he went out he sent his little sister back for his shoes, which the night-walking hired man had accidentally kicked toward the foot of the strangers' bed. In a minute I was out after him, but he was gone. Behind me the two girls opened their eyes on a room that was empty save for them. Then the Blight spoke (this I was told later). " Dear," she said, "have our room-mates gone?" Breakfast at dawn. The mountain girls were ready to go to work. All looked sorry to have us leave. They asked us to come back again, and they meant it. We promised we would return—to see them: the gentle mother, the rustic father, the steadfast little Buck, the bashful little Cindy, the elusive yet hardworking, shivering Mart, and the two elder sisters. As we started back up the river the sisters started for the fields, and I thought of their stricken brother in the settlements, who must have been much like Mart. Back up the Big Black Mountain we toiled, and late in the afternoon we were on the State line that runs the crest of the Big Black. Perched right above, where the State line cut the ridge, stood a shabby shack, and inside, Marston lounged with one leg folded over his saddle’s pommel, sipping water from a gourd. I was coming over to meet you," he said, smiling at the Blight, who, greatly pleased, smiled back at him. The shack was a "blind Tiger" where whiskey could be sold to Kentuckians on the Virginia side and to Virginians on the Kentucky side. Hanging around were the slouching figures of several moonshiners and the villainous fellow who ran it. " They are real ones all right," said Marston. " One of them killed a revenue officer at that front door last week, and was killed by the posse as he was trying to escape out of the back window. That house will be in ashes soon," he added. And it was. As we rode down the mountain we told him about our trip and the people with whom we had spent the night—and all the time he was smiling curiously. " Buck," he said. " Oh, yes, I know that little chap. Mart had him posted down there on the river to toll you to his house—to toll YOU," he added to the Blight. He pulled in his horse suddenly, turned and looked up toward the top of the mountain. " Ah, I thought so." We all looked back. On the edge of the cliff, far upward, on which the "blind Tiger" sat was a gray horse, and on it was a man who, motionless, was looking down at us. " He's been following you all the way," said the engineer. " Who's been following us?" I asked. " That's Mart up there—my friend and yours," said Marston to the Blight. " I'm rather glad I didn't meet you on the other side of the mountain—that's 'the Wild Dog.'" The Blight looked incredulous, but Marston knew the man and knew the horse. So Mart—hard-working Mart—was the Wild Dog, and he was content to do the Blight all service without thanks, merely for the privilege of secretly seeing her face now and then; and yet he would not look upon that face when she was a guest under his roof and asleep. | Need I say how natural it was for me to love him? Did I not simply arise from loving you? The brothers are decent men, though somewhat uncouth, and for the most part they receive the Word only through the speech of others. Filling the lad’s mind was akin to filling a lamp with oil. How precious the light it would one day cast abroad! And how much darkness was there to be dispelled! And in the darkness, I cried, "Mercy, mercy!" How many are at risk of perishing! I never felt more unmistakably a servant of God than during the days when Sergius was under my instruction. Thou, alas! As a woman, she was like a strong‑winged bird doomed, at best, to a narrow cage. The entire world unfolded before his eyes. None of the many observations I’ve had to record about the spiritual needs of our age astonishes me more than the glaring shortage of preachers. There are priests and monks among us. They’re called Legion. Which of them can be said to have been touched by the same ardent fire that swept through the original twelve faithful? Which among them is Athanasius? Or a Chrysostom? Or an Augustine? Slowly, in step with his growth, I grew increasingly ambitious for him. He exhibited swift resolve and astonishing courage. None of the tasks could frighten him. He spoke all the languages of the peoples surrounding him as if he had been born among them. He assimilated the Gospels, Psalms, and the prophetic books of the Bible into his memory. His replies in Greek are indistinguishable from my own. I began to imagine him as a preacher comparable to St. Paul. I heard him speak in the stone chapel while sleet‑ridden winds from outside dripped, numbing the air, and I saw the Brotherhood rise from their knees, shouting, singing, and wrestling like madmen. He is not simply a man of words, ideas, or rhetorical skill; he embodies all of those qualities and more. When inspired, he pours his spirit into his speech so that what he says grips the listener—calming a heart in passion and stoking the quiet into excitement. The willing listen to him with delight; the unwilling, being opposed, are bound by his words. The pearl seemed extremely valuable to me. I strove to keep it unmarred by the dust of the world. Using my skill, I have polished it smooth—removing all stains and roughness—and brought out its shine. And thus ends this letter from me. Do not think that my retreat to this remote corner of the earth has diminished my affection for Constantinople; on the contrary, distance has only deepened my love for it. Is it not still the capital of our sacred faith? Every now and then, a traveler makes his way here, carrying news of the changes it has endured. The first report was of Emperor John’s death and Constantine’s succession; the second informed us that justice had finally been done to the heroic father and that he was prospering; and more recently a wandering monk, seeking solitude for his soul, joined our community and told me that the old controversy with the Latins had erupted anew, hotter than ever; that the new emperor, an azymite, is inclined to uphold the union of the east and west churches that his predecessor had established with the Pope of Rome, leaving heart‑blisters burning like those that once divided the Jews. I am deeply afraid that the resemblance may become absolute. It shall surely come to pass when the Turk approaches our holy city, as Titus once did before Jerusalem. Finally, the latest intelligence persuaded me to acquiesce to Sergius’ requests to travel to Constantinople and finish the studies that had begun here. It is true that those who wish to move the world must first enter it; and my strong desire to remain informed of the churches’ discussions greatly influenced my decision to allow his departure. He has been directed thus, and shall obey. I ask that you welcome him warmly—for his own sake, for mine, and for the good he promises to bring to the cause of Jesus, our beloved Master. In conclusion, daughter—just as you were to your father, to your mother, and to me—grant me leave to revisit the circumstances that, after calm reflection, I assess as the most fascinating, delightful, and cherished moments of my life. The house beneath Kameses Hill on Prinkipo, intended as a convent or refuge for women rather than men, was nevertheless the place to which I was sent when thy father was consigned there after his victory over the Turks. I was still rather young, yet I vividly recall the day he crossed the gate with his family. From then on, until the Patriarch took me away, I served as his confessor. Death always comes as a shock. I remember its visits to the convent during my time among its people, but when it came and took your sisters we were doubly grieved. As if the ungrateful Emperor were not cruel enough, it seemed Heaven had to help him. The cloud of those sad events hung over the community for a long time, until finally a burst of sunshine broke through. A visitor entered my cell and exclaimed, “Come, rejoice with us—an infant has been born in the house.” You were the baby, and your arrival marked the first of the great joys I have mentioned. I vividly remember the hour we spent in the chapel as you were christened. The bishop presided at the rite, yet even the shimmering splendor of his canonicals—the cope studded with tiny bells along its edges and sleeves, the ompharium, the panagia, the cross, and the crozier—failed to divert my gaze from the dimpled pink face half‑hidden beneath the down‑pillow that cradled her before the font. Now the Bishop dipped his fingers into the holy water and asked, “What name shall we give this daughter?” I answered, “Irene.” Let me search for a name. Wouldn’t it be fitting to name her after the convent? I asked. They accepted the suggestion, and on that great day when the convent was on holiday, it felt as if a door in my heart opened of its own accord, ushering you into a chamber of boundless love where you would remain a sweet lady at home forever. It was, indeed, my second most cherished joy. Later, your father entrusted you to me for your education. I fashioned thy first alphabet, each letter illumined by my own hand. Do you recall the first sentence I heard you read? If ever you think of it now, remember that it was your first lesson in writing and your first lesson in religion—“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” "And therefore, what delight I found in guiding thee daily toward greater knowledge, until at length we reached the point where thou couldst think independently." It was in Sta. Sophia—present in my memory as nothing more than an occurrence of yesterday. You and I had gone from the island to the holy house, where we watched a service attended by the Emperor, who acted as ruler, and the Patriarch. The gilded cope and ompharium bathed the space around the altar in a splendor as warm and bright as sunshine. Then you asked me, “Did Christ and His disciples worship in a house like this?” Were they dressed like that? I felt uneasy about the people around us and advised you to rely on sight and hearing, but the proper time for questions and answers would come once we had safely returned to the old convent. When we were there, you posed new questions, and I did not hide the truth. I told thee of Jesus’ lowliness and simple ways—how He clothed Himself—and how the outdoors alone served as a temple sufficient for Him. I told you of His preaching before the crowds along the Galilean coast, of His prayers in the garden of Gethsemane, of the attempts to make Him king whether He would or not, of how He escaped from the people, and of how He paid no heed to money, property, titles, or worldly honors. Then thou didst ask, 'Who made worship so formal?' | 0.3 | Historical fiction | Fox, John | Wallace, Lew | 324 | 6848 | Fox, John_[A Knight of the Cumberland]_1500_7_0.1 | Wallace, Lew_[The Prince of India; Or, Why Constantinople Fell — Volume 01]_1500_31_0.9 |
The girl shook her head. " Searchers for the Seven Jewels do not work in pairs. Not for long, anyway. One of them soon kills the other when they do," she added enigmatically. Nathan glanced at her sharply, wondering if she were reminding him of their own precarious agreement—or accusing Tabor. They emerged cautiously from the sled, each gripping one of their flame rifles in addition to the smaller lances. " That shot came from the flat-roofed building at the end of the street," said Nathan. " We'll get on the roof of this one," said Firebird. " It's a hotel. It's the highest in town. We can fire the other building and get anyone trying to escape. " No other shots came their way. Nathan feared their assailant was leaving the building on the corner and trailing them up the street. They entered the old hotel. A foot of sand covered the first floor. The stairs were slippery with it. Shattered windows let the cold night breeze flow through. On the second and third floors, they rattled out clusters of sand‑bats that fluttered and squeaked, flinging themselves through the windows and filling them with black clouds. The enemy would certainly know their location now. Emerging through a fractured penthouse door, they stepped onto the rooftop, where the pale moonlit glow exposed the weathered skeleton of the town. The rifles they carried fired flames that spread across wide swaths, hovering like luminous coronae instead of slicing straight through the air. Thus, they would be effective in firing the buildings. From opposite edges of the roof, they unleashed a dozen flaming volleys straight at the base of the enemy’s hideout. But they had miscalculated as Nathan had feared. A hail of bullets swept down from a roof across the street, and the building behind them erupted in raging torrents of flame. They transferred their fire to the building from which the shots came. The flames hovered and glowed like demons around the base of the structure, but they died like wraiths. " I remember now," said Firebird. " That's the one fireproof building in Pheme. It was a special instrument laboratory. We'll have to smoke him out. " Tiny orange puffs from a flame lance drifted steadily out of various points on the other building, as if the enemy were darting about, pausing only long enough to fire. The flames from the burning building had already touched off the adjacent structures. The entire ghost town would be ablaze in a short time. Burning brands lit on the roof beside Nathan. They died, but others were coming in a rain of fire. They could see the enemy by the light of the fire now. They fired the buildings on either side and forced him to keep low. But his shots were close and accurate. Nathan and Firebird shifted positions after each shot, but the parapet in front of them was sieved accurately. Then Nathan suddenly realized the building behind them was aflame, its glow silhouetting them against the gaps in the parapet. No wonder the enemy could find them. He shouted to Firebird, "Get down! " She was too good a flame lancer to be disturbed by his shouting. She stayed calmly in place, eyeing the opposite window, waiting for the enemy’s head to break the line of sight. He came up for a quick sight upon the perfect target of the holes which Firebird blacked out. They fired simultaneously. Firebird's shot hit the edge of the window, spraying flame over the wall and curling it into the window. Some of it must have washed over the enemy, but too much of its energy had been dissipated to be effective. But Firebird was hit. Her body slumped down over the rifle and lay flat on the roof. Crawling on his belly, Nathan wriggled over to her and raised her head. She was unconscious, but no horrible blackening of her flesh showed the touch of flame lance fire. Then he saw where it had struck. Her silver helmet. It was too hot to touch. He knocked it away with his fist. Beneath it, her raven hair was singed but slightly. The electric shock had done most of the damage. He bent over her tenderly and fanned her face with the edge of her scarlet cloak. She began to stir. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. In that instant he knew that their lives were inseparably welded. No word was spoken, but he felt her trembling as if she suddenly knew it, too, and was afraid of it. After a moment she looked about and spoke, her voice unsteady. " We'll have to get down. The hotel is on fire. " Nathan followed the direction of her glance. The open door of the penthouse sent smoke billowing outward. " We'll never get down through the interior," said Nathan. He glanced at the adjacent building. It was one story lower and ten feet away. Firebird saw his glance and shook her head. " We can't get over that way. He'd shoot us the instant we tried it. We'll have to go inside. " " But it's impossible. " Firebird smiled. " After you've been to the pool of Luline, many things are possible. Here—" She unclasped the cloak from her throat and threw it about Nathan. " Protect your head and wrap it around you as much as possible. It won't burn. " Before he could protest, she slipped across the roof, staying low to keep out of the assailant’s flames. She plunged through the penthouse door into the inferno. The smoke and flame billowed about her, licking at her slender, unprotected body. Nathan tried to catch her, but the blinding vapors made him stumble and fall clumsily. He intended to fling the cloak over her once more, but had to wrap it around himself in order to make any headway at all. Miraculously, Firebird seemed unharmed by the flames. On the second floor Nathan made out her figure hurrying far ahead of him. Her garments crackled in flame, yet her bare arms and legs shone with the same inner light he’d witnessed in the Venusian cave. He stumbled in the treacherous sand and lost sight of her again. He slid and fell down the first floor stairway, which was almost burned away. His weight on it sent ominous vibrations through it, and he tried to tread lightly. Firebird was nowhere to be seen when he reached the street level. He raced outside in time to see the sand sled start up and disappear around the corner of the building. A puff of flame smashed against the sand in front of him. The enemy was watching for them to leave. That was why Firebird had moved the sled. He slipped back into the charred structure, battling through the smoke to reach a rear window that slipped behind the enemy's sights. He found Firebird waiting for him there. The smell of smoke was in her hair, but she seemed unharmed by the flames. She gave him no time for questions. " I'm going to drive around the town. Fire every building with the rifle. That will drive him out eventually. " She twisted the sled out through the narrow street to the open desert and began circling. Nathan pressed the rifle through the open port and fired continually at the wooden buildings. They watched sharply for their assailant, but he was apparently not aware of their escape. After completing the loop, Firebird steered the sled toward the desert and leapt up the far side of a towering dune. We'll watch for him to make a break for his sled," she said. " When he does, we'll let him get started and follow closely. He won't be able to fire while driving, and he won't dare stop because we'll be on him. " Nathan nodded. As Firebird stopped the sled, he handed her the cloak, a mere handful of cloth. " I'd like to know what the secret of this cloak is—and how you made it through that fire without protection. " Firebird smiled. " So would a lot of other people." Then she sobered and added, "I think perhaps you will be the one to know—some day. " She turned away and watched the burning ghost village. It was a beautiful hell of flame. Every building was yellow with fire. The desert was lit for miles around, and the sound of the crackling was like the sound of some great battle. " He can't stay in there much longer," said Firebird. The heat was already strongly felt at the dune. " There he is!" Nathan exclaimed. A figure burst suddenly out of the inferno and ran towards the far side of the burning town. " We're on the wrong side," said Firebird. | " "Our guns would be yours, if you needed them," someone said fervently. " I need all of them—every single one of you, spacemen. Right now, deep within the tunnels past Starhouse, the Martians have assembled. They're assailing Earthmen in an effort to drive you off this planet. Quelling them swiftly could bring the rebellion to an end. If we fail, Earth and we will be doomed. The silence crackled with tension, then a dozen men sprang up all at once. Let us see where they are. "She began, 'We'll kill the dirty—' but Alayna cut in, saying, 'You’re fighting men, not a mob.'" Arm yourself with lances and follow my lead. With a flash of light, she slipped from the dais to the doorway where Roal and Shorty waited. Here are your men—more than a hundred. "Let me lead you into the chamber where the Thousand Minds reside." Roal nodded. " We're with you. " He slipped behind her, keeping her a good distance ahead so that she seemed like an elusive, darting dream, rallying the cursing spacemen who roared out of the tavern in a surging tide. Ro al knew that most of them were poorly conditioned for combat. Their minds were soaked with drink—and some with harmeena, perhaps. However, each symbolized a weapon that could be turned against the Thousand Minds. The passage veered sharply at a right‑angle, plunging into a shadowed corridor. Ro al instantly sensed that something was amiss within the corridor. He was certain that the hue could not be black. He sensed that the light tubes were still glowing. As they went farther, the darkness grew even denser. It was a living, suffocating presence that swathed them, cloaking their souls. Roal heard the dismay in the voices of the spacemen behind him. Whispers cautioned them against pressing on. Alayna is in there!" Roal shouted. At that moment the sound of her voice rose again, echoing the song she had sung in the tavern. Their hopeful dreams of life buoyed them forward into the impenetrable darkness. Roal could not guess what the blackness might be. It was more than just an absence of light. Light flickered out of the tubes, yet the darkness devoured it whole before it could reach the eyes. He was certain it was a manifestation of the Thousand Minds, yet it seemed harmless—at least for the time being. Then, abruptly, the blackness erupted into light—a searing, lifelike radiance that slammed into their eyes, intensifying the darkness into a sharper, more blinding glare. Roal thrust his arm out before his eyes, stalling as the searing radiance slammed into him. Heat was absent, yet the light stood starkly opposite to the darkness that had preceded it. Even amid the hoarse shouts and angry cries of the spacemen, Alayna’s song continued, urging them forward against the radiant wall. It was a wall—Roal realized it, hidden behind the shield that lay across his arm. It hovered right beside them. Alayna stood before the slab, a quiet sentinel as he approached her. Here is the doorway that opens into the chamber. Beyond lies the assembly of the Thousand Minds. Break through the door and exterminate them! Roal traced the door’s edge and located its handle. He pressed the flame lance against the handle, and as the trigger clicked, the handle transformed into a living, writhing serpent that slipped into his grasp. An involuntary cry darted from his lips as he let the snake fall from his hands and released the lance’s trigger. He tried again, only to find the lance’s tip pressed against Alayna’s back as she lay flattened against the door. "Quickly press the trigger," she commanded. It's merely a ploy of the Thousand Minds. His head whirled. Alayna stood beside him. I'm real," she said. She pressed her hand to his arm to prove it true. He pressed the trigger toward the sight that lay before him. Gradually the door’s substance liquefied, collapsing into a mass that fell to the floor and swelled into a legion of great, writhing snakes. Each droplet shattered into a thousand finer drops, and every one of those instantly coalesced into a thousand minuscule snakes that writhed and swelled. The serpents surged back toward the spread of spacemen, coalescing into a dense, swirling torrent. Flame lances were unleashed upon them, set to consume them in searing blaze. The flames passed harmlessly through the torrent of serpents, yet struck the other spacemen. Although Alayna’s voice had not yet reached them, a dozen men already began to descend. Don't shoot! It's a Martian trick. These aren't real. All you’ll do is end up killing one another. Now—look! The door is opening. There are our enemies. The Thousand Minds. Kill them all! Let none escape!" The door was flung back by the force of Roal's and Shorty's push. They surged beside Alayna, landing on a ten‑foot balcony that spanned the room and framed a tiered array of seats in concentric circles. Ro al realized there were as many as a thousand. Perched in every seat was a motionless, withered Martian. The Earthmen’s entry stirred no motion among the Martians. They sat as if dead, yet Roal was struck by the immense, concentrated psychic power of that motionless assembly—a force capable of conjuring both darkness and light, as they had seen, and of summoning the flood of writhing serpents. Roal lifted his flame lance and aimed it at the Martians. A sense of revulsion at attacking those seemingly helpless creatures assailed him, yet he knew they were far from defenseless. Their purpose was lethal toward the Earthmen. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, a dozen Alaynas materialized beside him. He could see hundreds of figures within his sight. He knew the figures hovering before him were mere phantoms, but among those beside him he could not tell whether Alayna was real or just another mental construct of the Thousand Minds. Yet one among them clenched his arm tightly. "I am real," she said. Fire quickly. " He unleashed flame into the heart of the assembly. Behind him the other spacemen rushed onto the balcony. Drunk and convinced the visions were figments of their own minds, many of them fired wildly. The cumulative impact was unmistakable. Beneath the blast, dozens of Martians withered and perished in the searing fire. Those who remained channeled their formidable mental power into forging new, nightmarish horrors. The Earthmen watched as a monstrous head erupted above the assembly, swelling until it threatened to fill the entire chamber. A hundred gaping mouths belched smoke and tongues of flame, latching hungrily upon the bewildered spacemen. Roal considered it a harmless, unreal creation. He stepped closer, determined to fire through the beast and strike the assembly beyond. Yet one of those tongues of flame darted outward, hurling itself around him. Unexpected pain made him cry out involuntarily. It was far from harmless. The tongues erupted in flames that seared with an agony beyond words. Twenty of the others must have felt it too, as their alarmed cries echoed through the chamber. Each of them slipped back in turn, retreating toward the passage as the monster’s head swelled. Alayna pulled at Roal's arm. Down! She leapt over the balcony’s edge just before the head swelled and filled the chamber. Jump into the very center of their ranks! Roal saw she was right. He barked hoarsely to the spacemen, who turned at his summons. He seized the railing’s edge and leapt over just as a tongue of flame surged toward him. Alayna called. " Follow him! It's the only way! " Her voice remained enchanting, and with furious cries they leapt to the floor below, swarming in a circle around the seated Martians. The Martians remained rigid, unmoving even as Ro al poured his deadly flames upon them. They stood as if carved from stone, unmoving even as Ro al poured his deadly flames upon them. He looked up, trying to determine what had become of Alayna. He assumed she had followed. Yet she stayed perched on the balcony, a rallying symbol urging the spacemen to leap over its edge. Now that almost everyone had arrived, she stood nearly alone, and the monstrous head’s fury appeared to focus entirely on her. Roal let a hoarse cry escape his throat. Alayna! Jump! " She watched the menacing tongue of flame lunge toward her—too late. It seemed as though all the tongues’ flames had merged into a single, searing torrent. The maw clamped around her completely, from head to toe. All the spacemen in the chamber halted their fire and stared at the horror of her plight. Her screams cut through the chamber as she was yanked from the balcony and hurled into the air—only to be swallowed by the center of a colossal, devouring maw that ripened on the side of the head. It closed over her, and the sound of the voice of golden-haired Alayna, Queen of the Silver Stars was heard no more. | 0.8 | Adventure stories | Jones, Raymond F. | Jones, Raymond F. | 63886 | 64331 | Jones, Raymond F._[The 7 Jewels of Chamar]_1500_10_0.1 | Jones, Raymond F._[The World English Bible (WEB): Hosea]_1500_10_0.8 |
"Arternoon," replied Mr. Hodge, for he was not fond of boys, least of all Bob Henderson. " What d' you want?" He seemed to carry an air as if he were saying, “Stop your tricks, you young rascal!” If you play any jokes on me, you’ll be smarted for it. Bob said, “Mom wants a pound of lard—the best she can get, Mr. Hodge.” I keep only the best, nothing else. Then I want a pound. What a fine day, don't you think? I don't see any problem with it. Tain't rainin' anyhow. Now don’t upset anything while I’m going for the lard. I have to keep it down in the cellar; it's so hot up here. Bob knew this. In fact, he relied on it for the trick he was about to pull. No sooner had the storekeeper started down the cellar stairs than Bob drew from his pocket a long, stout piece of cord. He quickly tied one end of the cord to the spout of a molasses barrel that sat about halfway back in the shop. He pulled the cord through the doorway, keeping it roughly six inches above the floor, and tied its other end to a barrel of flour as a makeshift anchor. At that moment Mr. Hodge was heading upstairs, carrying the lard in a slender wooden dish with a sheet of paper tucked atop it. Bob stood at the counter, arranging the scale weights into a neat, regular pyramid. "The storekeeper growled, 'Leave them alone.'" First thing you realize is that they'll fall and maybe crack. "I wouldn't let that happen," Bob said earnestly, his lips curled into a sly smile. What is the price of the lard, Mr. Hodge? Fourteen cents. It's gone up. " " Bob murmured, “Something else is about to happen.” He handed over the money, grabbed the lard, and set off. Immediately upon reaching the store’s front stoop, he rushed to scan the surroundings. He watched Ted slip past a tree across the street. Suddenly Bob let out a shout that sounded as fierce as an Indian warrior’s cry when marching to battle. It sounded like a shriek, as if someone had been injured. He leapt off the porch and slipped beneath it, leaving one end exposed. Just moments later, Mr. Hodge, convinced an accident had occurred, rushed to the front door of his store. Just as he reached the door, he slipped and fell in a heap, tripped by the string Bob had stretched across the opening. The storekeeper was more astonished than injured, because his stout build and ample weight shielded him. He stood up, muttering a threat of vengeance for whatever had upset him, and approached the door to look out. No one could be seen. It must have been that mischievous Bob Henderson! he exclaimed. " He's always yelling and shouting. He returned to the shop, rubbing his shins. While doing so, he exclaimed in dismay. And indeed it could have—since the spigot of the molasses barrel was wide open, the sticky brown fluid ran all over the floor. Drat that boy!" cried Mr. Hodge. " I will make him suffer for this. I’ll have him arrested for malicious mischief and’ll sue his father. "I’ll try to put a stop to this nonsense." He spared no time in words, yet swiftly shut the molasses barrel’s spigot to halt the wasteful dribble. However, two or more gallons had run across the floor, creating a sticky pool. Meanwhile Bob emerged from beneath the stoop and crossed the street to meet Ted. Did you see anything?" he asked. " Did I?" asked Ted. " Certainly! Here’s a rephrased version of that sentence:
"Indeed, I have to say I did." It was great. How'd ye think of it?" " Did I do anything?" asked Bob innocently. " I presumed Bill Hodge had stubbed his toe and fallen. He likely lost his footing on the sticky molasses. Did you open the spigot? Me? I didn’t do it, but perhaps the string was responsible. I think I’ll have to rush home with this lard. The mother wants to bake some pies. Bob returned home far earlier than his mother had anticipated. After handing her the lard, he stepped outside and walked beneath the apple tree where he’d left the paper snappers. Mrs. Henderson mused, “He’s returned in the blink of an eye.” I can’t imagine he had any time to pull off any mischief. Perhaps he didn’t play any tricks on anyone this time, for Bob seldom went through the village, but when he did, he did it with care. In fact, Mrs. Henderson was mistaken, as we know. Meanwhile Mr. Hodge was scrubbing the floor, wiping away as much molasses as he could with old cloths and torn sheets of newspaper. While he was cleaning, a customer walked in and asked, “What’s the matter?” Did the molasses barrel sprout a leak, Bill? Leak? No, it was indeed that pesky Bob Henderson. Wait until I get hold of him! I'll make him smart. "I’m going to sue his father." What did he do? Why, Bill, you walk lame. What's the matter, got rheumatiz?" " All of this results from Bob. What did he do?" " Came here for some lard. While I was down in the cellar fetching it, he tied a string to the molasses barrel’s spigot and stretched it across the doorway. What, the spigot?" " No, the string. Ye know what I mean. He stepped onto the stoop and shouted as though he were mad. I thought someone had been killed and I ran out. I tripped over the string, and it caused the spigot to swing open. I slapped my shins, and when I peeked into the store—seeing nobody was hurt—the molasses was flowing all over. Oh, wait till I get hold of that pesky boy! "I suppose if you hadn't been so curious to find out who was killed, it wouldn't have happened," observed Adiran Meelik. Curious! Isn't it my right to come by and see who was killed in front of my store? I s'pose so. However, no one was actually killed; you just narrowly avoided injury. That's so. I intend to sue Bob Henderson’s father for the damages stemming from the personal injury. And then there’s the molasses that was wasted. Mr. Meelik remarked, taking the brown sugar he’d come to buy, “That boy plays too many tricks.” Altogether too many tricks. Still, he added with a smile, “I would have liked to watch Bill stumble and see how the molasses ran to waste.” The storekeeper didn’t waste a moment executing his plan. Because he was prudent and didn’t want to spend money on legal counsel if he could obtain compensation without a lawsuit, he decided to visit Mr. Henderson in person. Shortly after Mr. Hodge had cleared as much of the molasses as he could, his wife came in to relieve him of running the store, as was his custom. She’d already taken an early supper and was to stay there until Mr. Hodge had also satisfied his appetite. Under this arrangement, there was no need to hire a clerk. They occupied rooms above the shop. “William, your supper’s ready,” she said. I suppose we'll have to postpone supper until tomorrow. Why?" " Because I’m going to see if I can collect damages from Enos Henderson for what his son did. What's that?" Mr. Hodge explained, and his wife agreed that it would be wise first to see what a personal demand could accomplish. Around six in the evening, Mr. Hodge arrived at the Henderson residence. Mr. Henderson had finished work at five and was having supper when the storekeeper entered. Bob grasped the purpose of his visit, and, feigning a desire to see a friend, was just about to get up from the table. "I have business with him too," Mr. Hodge said in a rather surly tone. With Bob?" “With Bob?” asked Mr. Henderson, his heart sinking. He realized that his son must have been up to a prank involving the storekeeper, for Mr. Hodge was not one to indulge in friendly calls. Yes. I’m here to see if you’ll settle my damages claim without pursuing a lawsuit. A lawsuit?" Mr. Henderson inquired, his alarm rising, as Bob’s mother grew pale. Bob himself, a little rattled by his prank, sank into a chair. I want damages for personal injuries and for the five gallons of molasses that were wasted. It couldn't have been more than three gallons," interrupted Bob. | " "Does it hurt you very much?" " Only moments before the storm. Curious, yet that Confederate bullet acts much like a barometer. I can tell with certainty when it’s going to rain. When I can no longer earn a living blacksmithing, I’ll start working as a weather prophet," the veteran laughed heartily at his misfortune. During the ride, the two chatted pleasantly, and at Dan’s request, the blacksmith shared some of his war experiences. Mr. Harrison, in turn, asked Dan to talk about his life on Savage farm, but Dan was not the type to complain, even though it was hard. “I know it’s bound to be hard on you,” said the old soldier, “and I wish I could take you with me, but as I’ve already got enough hard work to manage, I can’t.” Still, Dan, remember I’m your friend no matter what happens; if there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know. Later, as Mr. Harrison steered the horse down the side street toward his shop, Dan spotted a mysterious stranger standing outside Mr. Johnson’s shoe store. There he is again!" exclaimed the boy. " I wonder what he's up to around here. Dan pointed to that man. What? Are you familiar with him as well? "While I don't know him in detail, I've certainly spoken with him," Dan reported the conversation he’d had with the stranger. Mr. Harrison, do you know who he is? No, he only says he’s an inventor. Yesterday, he visited my house and had me repair an unfamiliar tool. Never before had I seen something quite like it. It looked like a long chisel—or a big device used for lifting tacks. I wondered whether it was meant for laying or lifting carpets, so I asked him, but he replied that it was an invented tool he could not reveal its purpose. It had split into two, so I welded the halves back together for him. Seeing that he didn't want to speak, I refrained from asking him any further questions. He's an odd man, yet he seems to have plenty of money. If you're heading to Mr. Lee's store, you’d be best off stopping here first. I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a ride back. Dan smiled, “You really did me a good turn,” as he stepped off with the molasses jug. As Dan headed toward the general store, the blacksmith turned into a nearby street, and Dan caught sight of the stranger waving. Turning to find out who it was, Dan saw an ill‑dressed figure stand beside the stranger in front of the shoe store. “Certainly, he must know someone in the village,” Dan thought. He realized he had no time to waste watching the stranger and the poorly dressed man, even as he wondered vaguely what they were carrying. Dan hurried to Hank Lee's store. The proprietor behind the counter caught his eye. "Ah, could it be you?" Mr. Lee exclaimed in a rather surly tone as he spotted Dan. I hope you don't have any wild bulls outside. "No, sir," replied Dan, his grin barely contained at the thought of Mr. Lee up a tree. What you grinnin' at?" Mr. Lee demanded payment from the storekeeper, his tone sour. I suppose you think it’s funny to see men being chased by a bull. No, sir; I regret that you had to run. Had to run? I didn't need to run. I could have stood still and fought that bull if I’d minded to, but I had some money in my pocket from collecting a bill and didn’t want to lose it. I was not afraid of that bull, and I don’t want you to carry that thought in your mind. Dan decided that staying silent was the wisest choice, even though he was sure Mr. Lee had been very frightened by the angry beast. I'll tell you what it is,” said the storekeeper. “If you ever play a trick like that on me again, I’ll have you arrested.” That wasn’t a trick, Mr. Lee. Don't tell me. I know better. What would you like? I’d like a quarter‑sized portion of molasses. Sure, here’s the jug. Dan handed the jug to the storekeeper, who refilled it from a barrel in one corner of the shop. Where's the money?" demanded Mr. Lee. " I won’t trust Peter Savage anymore. He owes me money now, and when I sue him for the damage the bull caused me, he'll owe me more. I need cash for things, so tell him that. Maybe Mrs. Savage had foreseen such an incident and, uncharacteristically, she gave Dan the cash to pay for the molasses. “Here’s the quarter,” the boy declared, tossing the coin onto the counter. It dropped with an odd, muted thud, lacking the bright ring that silver normally produces. Mr. Lee took the coin, examined it closely, tapped it on the counter to hear its sound, and then told Dan Hardy, “Don’t play any tricks on me.” Tricks? What do you mean? I’m not pulling any tricks. What do you mean by giving me that bad money? That's a counterfeit twenty‑five‑cent piece, and you should know it. I didn't know anything like that, and I don’t think it’s counterfeit. You don't, eh? Hear that sound! Again, Mr. Lee rang the coin against the counter. It emitted a muted clink. Dan had to admit the coin failed to make the proper sound. “I won’t give molasses for bad money,” said Mr. Lee. I don’t have any other. Then you'll have to go back for more. It made me haul a gallon of molasses for nothing. I’ll keep the jug until I’ve received payment. Mrs. Savage will be angry if I don’t return the molasses to her. I couldn’t care less. If you allow me to take the molasses with me, I’ll inform Mr. Savage that the money he—indeed, Mrs. Savage—gave me is worthless. I'll bring you another quarter as soon as I'm able. Dan resolved to do everything he could to complete his errand, even though it was not his fault that the storekeeper had no confidence in the old farmer. Well, I suppose that will have to do. Mr. Lee didn’t want to lose business, and even though Mr. Savage owed him a substantial sum, he was certain the debt would be paid in time. If he does not accommodate the farmer's wife, they may take their business elsewhere. Mr. Lee returned the quarter to Dan and, as he did, added, “You ought to tell Peter Savage to be careful how he circulates counterfeit money,” passing along the jug of molasses. "And be sure to bring me a solid quarter as soon as you can." Yes, sir," replied Dan. " I wonder where that counterfeit money originated. He thought to himself as he began his journey home. Although thanks to Mr. Harrison’s ride Dan had completed the errand in far less time than usual, he was scolded by Mrs. Savage upon his arrival. I’ve never seen a boy so lazy. she exclaimed. " Did you stop to make the molasses? Dan said, “I came close to missing it,” and then recounted the incident with the counterfeit quarter. "As he had anticipated, that surprised Mrs. Savage more than Mr. Lee’s refusal to extend credit, for though Mr. Savage was wealthy, he delayed settling his debts for as long as he could." That quarter bad!" She exhaled in surprise as Dan handed it to her. I don't believe it! However, after testing it carefully, she had to admit that it was counterfeit. Wa'al, of all things!" she cried. " That's a swindle—I’ll bring the law to bear on that man! Who was the one who passed it to Mr. Savage? asked Dan. " Who? Why has that pesky book agent been asking you so many questions? Pa, whom she called her husband, give it to me for grocery money. Now it's bad! You'll have to make it up, that’s all. You were at fault for us getting it. I don't see how you can say that. | 0.6 | Adventure stories | Webster, Frank V. | Webster, Frank V. | 11909 | 68436 | Webster, Frank V._[Bob the Castaway; Or, The Wreck of the Eagle]_1500_2_0.7 | Webster, Frank V._[Only a farm boy; or, Dan Hardy's rise in life]_1500_7_0.8 |
Which is true?' ' Both,' said I promptly, determined not to be outdone as a prophet by Papa. Poor Vicki. It is so hard to have life turned into a smudge when one is only twenty. She adored the man, felt proud of him, and delighted in the honor of being chosen by him. She grew into a woman during the year of their engagement, and now she can never retrace her steps to the carefree, sunlit world she once wandered as if it were a fairy tale, no matter how many years of expected adulthood have passed. Do you realize how harsh a blow she has endured—both to her face and to her fragile heart? All her vanities—those that make a girl feel worthy—withered; her self‑respect vanished, and any conceit she had, if it existed at all, fled headlong thereafter. A betrothal here is almost as binding and quite as solemn as a marriage. It is announced in the papers. It is abundantly celebrated. The parents on both sides embrace each other warmly and hold each other in high regard until the time comes to finalize the arrangements. The Lindebergs spent every penny they had laid aside and borrowed additional funds to buy a bridal trousseau and furnish the house. Vicki cried bitterly when she talked of her table-napkins. She noted there were twelve dozen items, each in a distinct pattern, and each dozen was bound with a pink ribbon fastened by a buckle and a bow. They were forced to sell the goods again at a heavy loss, and the family fled Berlin, leaving behind the strained, masked faces of acquaintances who feigned sympathy while Vicki’s true desire was simply to smile. Frau von Lindeberg, relieved of the torment of unrequited love but steeped in the bitterness of her social and financial loss, cannot refrain from hurling harsh, pointed reproaches at Vicki—reproaches that sometimes almost border on taunts. The man was a good match for Vicki: though his income was modest, his prospects were bright, and he was significantly older and already a distinguished officer—so during their engagement his delighted mother brimmed with pride for her respectable daughter. It was so nice,' said Vicki-, dolefully sniffing. ' She seemed to love me almost as much as she loves my brother. I was so happy. I had so much. Then everything went at once. Mom can’t bear the thought that no one will ever want to marry her because of her engagement. Well, love is a cruel, horrible thing. Rarely do both people love each other with equal enthusiasm—so if they do, what’s the point? Everything is destined to fade into smoke and nothingness, smothered by the relentless drizzle of marriage. For those whose love is uneven—where one side is left at a miserable disadvantage and wholly at the mercy of the other—the only inevitable outcome is pain. And yet—and yet it is a pretty thing in its beginnings, a sweet, darling thing. But, like a kitten, all its charming and delightful qualities—innocent, soft, and enchanting at first—quickly turn into the appalling speed and cruel claws of a full‑grown cat. I wonder whether there is anyone on Earth who is so joyfully indifferent that they have not hidden themselves behind a bold display of clothes and trimmings to cover the scar of love. I believe most of the wounds are so ferocious that they leave behind lingering, ghastly tears which reopen and bleed again; even after years of drying, a red, terrible scar remains that makes you wince whenever it is touched. That is what I think. What do you think? Good-by. No, don't tell me what you think. I don't want to know. XLVI Galgenberg, Sept. 24th. Dear Mr. Anstruther, yesterday I was so absorbed in Vicki’s troubles that I never wrote the thing I really wanted to. It's that book I found in the Jena bookshop. I bought it—a cheap second‑hand book—and it has unkindly turned against me, wreaking havoc with my fantasies. It is a compilation of biographical accounts of English poets, beginning with Chaucer—who, fortuitously, is far enough away to offer little gossip—and extending through the centuries, its stories swelling with more rumor as time goes on, until it concludes with Rossetti, FitzGerald, and Stevenson. Each poet has his portrait. It was for that I bought it. I cannot tell you how eagerly I looked at them. At last, I intended to see how Wordsworth, Coleridge, Keats, and Shelley were portrayed. I have longed to visit your National Portrait Gallery in London, as described in an old Baedeker, and to stand before the visages of those whose souls I recognize so intimately. Now I don't want to. Can you imagine how blessed it feels to read a poet’s best, pristine work—unmarred by gossip or criticism—while living far from his homeland and ignorant of the rumors that surround his private life? Milton, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, and Burns have been my greatest teachers and exemplars; I have spent glorious hours in worship of their shining images, formed from the radiant material of their works. Not a cloud, not a misgiving has dimmed my worship. We women need altars—which was mine—and, since I cannot practise religion in the ordinary sense, those altars have become my substitute for faith. The celebrated poets of our own tradition—Goethe, Schiller, Heine, and the rest—do not inspire me in the same way. Goethe is wonderful, yet he often leaves you perched in a cold place, where you intermittently proclaim his grandeur, even as you wish he would keep the very foundations of your soul a little warmer. Schiller drums his patriotic beat, his keen eyes perpetually roving toward the gallery, yet his enthusiasm remains so intermittent that perfect delight never fully arrives. Heine, the exquisite and cunning virtuoso of language, strings pearls upon the frailest golden threads, is too mischievous and too malignant to be put on a pedestal. Yet we cannot help laughing at his extraordinary gift for unnerving the respectable, at the remarkable skill and meticulousness with which he seeds poison into their most tender places—how, then, can he worship while being made to laugh? Even if I knew little about our poets’ lives—though inevitably I know more than I wish—I would still feel the same. There is, I think, in their poetry nothing heavenly. I sincerely thank God for those who live and sing, for the noble heritage He has given us, but unlike my father I cannot be swept into a flood of ecstasy whenever Goethe’s name is mentioned. I remember what you said about Goethe. It has not influenced me. I do think you were wrong. I also believe that all that is truly heavenly in our nation—everything purely inspired and manifestly immortal—has passed not into our poetry, but into our music. It has taken away all the divine fire from us, leaving our poets with nothing but the cool, conscious exercise of their intellect. Well, I am preaching. I would become an exceedingly arrogant parson, wouldn't I, laying down the law more often than the prophets from that secure citadel—a pulpit; yet please have patience, for I need you to comfort me. The book really has made me unhappy. It’s a book that you feel compelled to keep turning, each page fuming in defiance—yet you won’t abandon it until the very last word. You cast it with all your might into the farthest corner of the room, then shake yourself like a dog emerging from muddy water, hoping to brush it away as easily as the dog rips off its mud; yet you cannot, for it has become burned into your soul. I don't suppose you will understand what I feel. When a person possesses very few things those few things are terribly precious. | I'll rip t' waistcoat open and see what 'tis." He drew his clasp‑knife from his pocket, delicately slit a seam in his waistcoat, and pulled out a double‑folded square of fairly thick paper—partly printed, partly handwritten. He leaned over the light with his elbows on the table and read the page with his thick forefinger, occasionally pausing for long moments at one syllable, or backtracking half a line, but always plodding patiently. Reaching the last word, he burst into a loud chuckle, as if he had just cracked the hard puzzle that had stumped him all evening. He said, “I know it all now.” I can put it all together now. His words; and hers; and the money. I can piece it all together and grasp its meaning. She's going to give him two thousand pounds to leave here and say nothing about it. Carefully refolding the scrap, he tucked it back into the snug recess between the waistcoat’s lining and stuffing, then dug into his roomy pocket for a hefty leather tome, only to find, among the assorted odds and ends, some needles and a tangled skein of black thread. Bending over the lamp, he slowly stitched up the seam he had torn, doing so deftly and neatly despite the clumsiness of his large fingers. STILL CONSTANT. The morning after his visit to Doncaster, Mr. James Conyers ate breakfast in his apartment while Stephen Hargraves attended to him, delivering a basin of muddy coffee and enduring his irritable mood with the patience that seemed to belong to the hump‑backed, low‑voiced stable‑helper. Rejecting the coffee, the trainer called for a pipe and spent half a summer morning smoking; the scent of roses and honeysuckle drifted into his close chamber, and July sunshine gilded the artificial roses and blue lilies that twisted in floricultural excess over the cheap wallpaper. "The Softy polished his master's boots, set them in the sunshine to dry, wiped down the breakfast‑ware, swept the doorstep, and then sat on it to ruminate, elbows on his knees and hands twisted in his coarse red hair." In the summer, silence settled over the air, broken only by the languid hum of insects in the woods and the sporadic fall of a leaf blighted early. Mr. Conyers' temper remained unchanged after his night of dissipation in Doncaster. God knows the pleasures he sought on those lonely streets, the grass‑grown marketplace with its empty stalls, or that dreary, hermetically sealed building that resembled a prison on three sides and a chapel on the fourth; during the September meeting it suddenly burst into life, its gaunt walls illuminated by massive posters and a bright blue‑ink sign announcing Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews—or Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean—for just five nights. Normal amusement in the town of Doncaster between these two oases in the year's dreary circle, the spring plus autumn meetings, there is none. For men such as Mr. James Conyers, however, a crooked and alluring alleyway opens into a realm of rare and extraordinary amusement, where the sole companion is the wagered promise of money. Whatever the circumstances, Mr. Conyers bore every sign of having spent a night of excess. His eyes stared dim and glassy, his tongue was hot and swollen, oddly too large for his parched mouth, and his hand trembled so badly that the razor he held before the mirror seemed to hang between a reckless shave and a near‑suicidal cut. His head, heavy as if it had turned into a leaden box rattling with buzzing sounds, slipped into this state; after half‑finishing his toilette, he abandoned the task, threw himself upon the bed he had just left, a victim of the biliary derangement that inevitably follows an overindulgence of alcohol and malt drinks. "A tumbler of Hochheimer," he muttered, "or even the lowly Chablis served at table‑d'hôte would lift my spirits—yet all here boils down to brandy and water." He beckoned the “Softy” and bade him fashion a tumbler of the previously named drink, chilled and faint. Mr. Conyers finished the crisp, clear drink and settled back onto the pillow, sighing with relief. He knew thirst would return in five or ten minutes and that the pause was only fleeting; still, it was a brief respite. Have they come home?" he asked. " Who?" " Mr. and Mrs. Mellish, you idiot!" answered the trainer fiercely. " Who else ought I to occupy my thoughts with? Did they arrive home last night while I was away? The “Softy” informed his master that he’d seen a carriage drive past the north gates shortly after ten last night, and that it was probably carrying Mr. and Mrs. Mellish. "You'd better go up to the house and make sure," said Mr. Conyers. "I want to know." Go up to th' house?" " Yes, coward!—yes, sneak! Do you think Mrs. Mellish will eat you? "I don't think there's any reason to go," the Softy answered sulkily; "I would rather not." But I must tell you, I want to know—whether Mrs. Mellish is at home, what she is up to, whether anyone has visited, and all that concerns her. Do you understand?" " “Steeve Hargraves replied that while the concept is easy enough to understand, putting it into practice is both rare and difficult.” How am I to find out? Who's to tell me?" " How do I know?" The trainer barked impatiently, since Stephen Hargraves’s slow, dogged stupidity was driving the dashing James Conyers into a fever of vexation. How do I know? Can't you see that I’m so ill I can’t lift myself from this bed? I'd go myself if I wasn't. Can't you just do what I ask without arguing and driving me mad? Steeve Hargraves muttered a sulky apology, then shuffled out of the room. Mr. Conyers’s handsome eyes trailed his every move, shadowed by a dark frown. A drunken debauch leaves the body in an unpleasant state of health, and the trainer blamed himself for the weakness that drove him to Doncaster the evening before. In this world, much penance is carried out vicariously by others. Lady‑maids inevitably suffer for their mistresses’ follies, and Lady Clara Vere de Vere’s French housekeeper, Abigail, will likely atone for young Laurence’s death by enduring her mistress’s ill‑temper and constantly unpicking and remaking bodices—work that would have suited her otherwise, if not for the remorseful misery born of a guilty conscience. The ugly gash across young Laurence’s throat – and the cruel slanders that spread after the inquest – almost make life unbearable for the poor nursery‑governess who tutors Lady Clara’s younger sisters; and for the sisters themselves, their parents, Lady Clara’s youthful confidantes, and even her most haughty admirers, all of whom bear a share in expiating her ladyship’s wickedness. She cannot, nor will she, meekly admit her guilt, so she withdraws from the world in pursuit of personal atonement and redemption. Thus she shifts the weight of her transgressions onto others and slips into the initial phase of cantankerous, disappointed old‑maidhood. Businessmen who stumble in the City and racing enthusiasts whose calamitous losses keep them away from Mr. Tattersall’s premises on a settlement day all drag innocent women and children into bearing the weight of their sins and suffering the penalties of their folly. Papa still smokes his Cabanas at fourpence-halfpenny apiece, or his mild Turkish at nine shillings a pound, and still dines at the Crown and Sceptre in the drowsy summer weather, when the bees are asleep in the flowers at Morden College, and the fragrant hay newly stacked in the meadows beyond Blackheath. | 0.2 | Young women -- Fiction | Arnim, Elizabeth von | Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth) | 35282 | 48021 | Arnim, Elizabeth von_[The Secret Way]_1500_35_0.5 | Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)_[Aurora Floyd, Vol. 2 Fifth Edition]_1500_28_0.7 |
"I should like—I don't want to trouble you—anywhere would do—but I don't want to go home to-night——" Dorothy made a swift and doubting mental calculation. Where could she put her?—— " Amory, closing her eyes, muttered, “I’m simply done up.” "I'm afraid we can only give you a shakedown in the dining room," Dorothy said, and Stan replied, "Yes— that would do," as she set off to give him his orders. Stan swore. " Rather cool, one of that crew is coming here tonight—of all nights! But Dorothy was peremptory. " It isn't cool at all. You don't know anything about it. Blankets are tucked away in the chest of your dressing‑room—just remember not to rouse Noel. Get some cushions—I'll freshen the pillowcase—and then you must go up there and tell them where she is; they'll be worried. Stan asked satirically. " May as well put the lot up. " Upon hearing Dorothy’s reply, he concluded that his wife had truly gone mad. I've arranged that," she said. " We’ll keep the twins in Ludlow for a while while she and her husband head off somewhere new for a change. It's the least we can do. Don't stand gaping there, Stan——" "Hm! May I ask what's up?" " You may ask if you wish, but I’ll refuse to answer. Hm!... Well, it’s a pull‑of‑the‑dog’s existence, but I guess I shouldn’t bother speaking up. In Dorothy's dining‑room, Amory was propped on a dirty, makeshift bed; by mid‑night she awoke, confused and unable to remember where she truly lay. A sliver of beam pierced through the closed curtains, illuminating the Venetian blinds from the streetlamp outside, and with no other light source, Amory slipped from her makeshift couch. She traced the wall, found a switch, and a sudden burst of light flooded the room. Blinking, she looked around. She herself wore one of Dorothy's nightgowns. Her hat lay on Stan’s armchair beside his pipe‑rack, and her clothes were piled where she had stepped out of them. By the fender lay Dorothy’s slippers, and she had been so preoccupied that she forgot to take down the photograph of Uncle Ben from the mantelpiece. It seemed to watch over Amory, who was half-awake in her borrowed nightgown. It was odd how things had turned out: if you’d asked Amory at six that evening where she intended to spend the night, she would not have replied “In Dorothy Tasker’s flat”; instead she felt dreadfully listless, the makeshift bed was surprisingly warm, so she switched off the light and crept back. Along the terrace of the late Sir Noel Tasker’s house—“The Brear,” Ludlow—a troop of ten or twelve mischievous youngsters surged. They were dressed haphazardly in a riot of coloured jerseys, shirts, jackets and blazers, and the legs of half of them were bare, brown as sand. Their ages ranged from five to fifteen, and it hardly needed mentioning that they shouted as they ran. A retriever, two Irish terriers, an Airedale, and a Sealyham chased them, barking. In July, the evening glowed amber and grew still, the shouting and barking subsiding as the band rounded the corner of the long, low white house and slipped into the beech grove. Their tutor was savoring a well‑earned pipe over in the coach‑house. A group of older people stepped onto the terrace from the tall drawing‑room window. The muffled sound of wheels, climbing slowly up the drive, could be heard. Lady Tasker stepped out first, followed by Cosimo, Amory, Dorothy, and Stan. A small stack of marked bags lay beneath the rose‑clad porch, while the larger boxes had already been carted off to the station. Stan drew a whistle from his pocket, blew two sharp blasts, then reached for his watch. The sounds of shouting drew near again. " Stan remarked, "I give them thirty seconds." "Twenty‑five, twenty‑six—leg it, Corin!—ah, twenty‑eight!" Company—fall in! " The young Tims and Tonys, together with Corin, Bonniebell and all the terriers—tails aside—stood as rigid as ramrods. Stan replaced his watch. Though he had been fishing, he still wore his tweed peaked cap, with a spare cast or two wound around it. Company—'Shun! Stand a-a-at—ease! 'S you were! Stand a-a-at—ease! Stand by—Tony, step aside and take care of the bags. Tim, hold the horse. Corin—Corin!—What do you keep in the trenches?" " Silence," piped up Corin. He had a rag wound around one brown knee, his head half‑buried in an old field‑service cap, and he would not part with the wooden gun he carried, day or night. There wasn’t much noise then—who's going to lower the flag tonight? Billie. " " Billie stand by. Dismiss the rest of you, but don't go far—"Good evening, Richards"—and the trap pulled up at the front of the house. Tim held the horse's head, Tony stood among the bags. The leavetaking began. Amory and Cosimo were bound for Cumberland for the rest of the summer. They had wanted to travel to Norway, but the money was no longer available for it. They seemed a little shy of one another. They had spent two weeks at the Brear and had used the small room above the porch. The twins were remaining behind for the present. Dorothy had said they would be no trouble. This was entirely untrue. They were more trouble than all the rest put together. Near the schoolroom window, Corin was wrangling with an eight‑year‑old Woodgate. They do, there! On Hampstead Heath! I’ve seen them, and they’ve got hats, water bottles, and broomsticks! Pooh, broomsticks! My father has a big elephant-gun! " " Well…mine goes to grand, big meetings and says, “Hear, hear!” My father's in India!" " Well, so was mine! " "_ I have seen them troop the Colour at the Horse Guards' Parade. So've I!" Corin mendaciously averred. The other boy widened his eyes and stretched his lips wide. It is uncommon for a boy to fail to realize when another boy is lying. Oh, what a big one! You'd_ catch it if Uncle Stan heard you! " " "Well," Corin pouted, "I'll do it; if not, I'll cry all night hard, and I'll make Bonnie cry too!" Well, I’ll see it again—after all, I’ve already seen it twice, while you’ve only seen it once—and if I notice it every time you do, you’ll never observe it as often as I do. Then Stan's voice was heard. " Corin, come here. " Despite the atmosphere of blind militarism, the Pratts were content to let their children taste it for the time being. They had another matter to attend to—their own marital relations. It had finally dawned on them that you cannot rule others until you can govern yourself, and they intended to see what could be done about it. They had secured a cottage miles from the nearest town, perched at the end of a narrow‑gauge railway, and it remained to be seen whether the quiet and seclusion—and the inner strength they might tap into—would prove more beneficial than the lack of those qualities had before. There was just the chance that they might—their only chance. Should all go well, the twins would eventually join them. In the meantime, they must see red, and learn to act on a single instruction. Amory cradled the restless Corin in her arms—he begged to go to the armory of wooden guns—and kissed him. Then he ran unconcernedly off. Watching the subtle lift in Amory’s bosom, Dorothy guessed the cause and laughed. Shocking little ingrates!" she said. " Noel’s exuberance at my departure can be quite inappropriate, yet I assure you there will be no trouble for us. You can see the chaos we’re in, after all. It's very good of you," Amory murmured awkwardly. " Nothing of the sort. Stan takes pleasure in putting himself in charge—it keeps him involved in my business, he says. I’m not trying to rush you, but if you hope to reach Liverpool tonight, you’d better get moving. Good‑bye, dear; good‑bye, Dorothy; so long, Pratt—grab those bags, Tim; good‑bye, Bonnie; Corin! Corin!—(Hm! See if I don't have you in hand in another week or two, my boy!)—Come and say good-bye to your father. | she continued dreamily. " I hope it isn’t merely the settling of opinions that proves fatal to the true vitality of thought. An _idée fixe_ is not merely a thought; it is a principle that, over time, hardens ideas into stone. Then they've got to be got fluid again. Are you certain you haven’t incorrectly classified Dorothy? She looked earnestly at him. " He began, “But—,” but Amory gently interrupted him. "Let us examine Dorothy’s situation without any bias," she said. First, I know she’s entangled with utterly impossible companions, but you must not forget that she was with us at the McGrath. Her work is as impossible as it may seem, dear Dot, yet no matter where you look, Cosimo, you will find no one who appreciates it more than she does. A modest encouragement of one aspect of her character and a slight suppression of the other would make Dorothy almost the perfect wife for an advanced, fine‑thinking man. It's merely her environment that doesn't give her a chance. From a eugenics standpoint, intermarriage within her family may have left those close to her somewhat exhausted, yet she shows no signs of this—she could simply be a throwback. And it no longer feels like a drawback that Dorothy is rather fond of her own way. Equality of opportunity is now recognized, and within ten years the idea that a woman can be treated as property will have died out. Imagine how far you could worsen things, Cosimo. Suppose you got hold of a mere doll!... Cosimo," she added earnestly, "it would be—hell! " Cosimo trembled inwardly, and faced with Amory's earnestness he could not mask his trembling with a laugh. He interrupted, saying, "But I—I don't want Dorothy, Amory!" I simply ask you to reflect on whether this might be an _idée fixe_. After a more detailed inspection, Cosimo replied that he didn't think it was an _idée fixe_. And besides, you’ve really erased my ability to enjoy the company of anyone who might come along. I’m not hiding from you, Cosimo, that the most precious and meaningful part of my life has been spent with you. He burst out almost angrily, saying, “The past tense again, Amory!” I really don't know what's come over you. Are you suggesting that you would miss me only a little? Miss you! ——" This time, he offered a faint, humorless laugh. Then, Amory went on, gently, “there’s another point we should keep in mind.” Dorothy's used to me. We are friends. Another girl might not be. See how deeply I care about whom you choose to marry, Cosimo, and why. But—what’s gotten into your head to make you think I want to marry at all? Cosimo cried, stopping and looking blankly at her. She also met his gaze, then stepped forward again, her pace slow. "Ah, you're right in the very heart of the feminist movement, if only you knew it, Cosimo," she replied. A man possesses only his intellect, whereas a woman wields both intelligence and intuition. You mean you have an intuition that I want to get married? Cosimo broke out. " Rewritten sentence
_"I swear—"_ _"Oh, Cosimo, what's the point of swearing?"_ It’s just like that old, antiquated service again—when you promise love and honour, yet you remain utterly clueless. You may not want to at this moment. But you don't realize that tomorrow someone may not want to marry you. I only want the right person—someone I can call a friend, she added softly. As she placed her hand on his arm, Cosimo felt a gentle brotherly warmth. He was not aware – and if he had been, he had forgotten – that Amory’s Aunt Jerry and Mr. Massey lived on Chiswick Mall, just a stone’s‑throw from their own dwelling. While passing the “Doves,” Amory cried out, “We’re so close to Aunt Jerry’s!” Shall we go in to lunch?" Her quick tone marked a departure from the past‑tense rumination about his marriage, and he eagerly welcomed it. Moreover, a visit to the Masseys would stir up vivid memories of that merry wedding day when Mr. Wellcome, a little tipsy, had been passing around toothpicks. It would be exactly what would pull Amory out of herself. Ripping idea!" said Cosimo enthusiastically. " Which is the house?" " “That’s the one you’re walking past now,” Amory said, placing her hand on the knob of the tall wrought‑iron gate. I doubt Aunt Jerry has ever been to church. They walked up a narrow, flag‑topped path while Amory rang a weathered bell beside a torch‑extinguisher. From the first‑floor drawing‑room window, Aunt Jerry had already waved her hand. The door was opened, and they were admitted. " "We'd asked ourselves to have lunch, Cosimo and I," said Amory, kissing her aunt where she sat by the window. May we stay?" Aunt Jerry affected a severity. " "I'm not so sure, after the disgraceful period you thought appropriate to withdraw," she replied. I'm very cross with both of you. If you had stayed a week longer, Cosimo—knowing I still remembered I was going to call you—I'd have been sure George would never have let you into the house. But I forgive you now you are here. George will be back from church presently. Strip away your possessions, dear, and Cosimo will speak with me. You remember the little room, don’t you? Or has it been so long since you were last here that it’s slipped your mind? Hyacinths blossomed in the glass panes of Aunt Jerry’s rounded bow‑window, and a canary sang from its white and gilt cage; the house felt perfectly matched to its owners’ time, its chairs and tables neither truly old enough to be antique nor newly made, but comfortably second‑hand. The paneling was pleasant, and the airy view of the river above was delightful. Aunt Jerry immediately pointed out the view to Cosimo, saying that after a whole day spent there it felt “almost as good as being outdoors.” There was no need to wonder why she sat there, watching her swelling hyacinths and listening to the trilling of her bird. Amory anticipated being formally introduced as a cousin in early April. Aunt Jerry beamed, “I’m so glad you’re here.” Mrs. Deschamps is coming; George will meet her after the service, and Miss Crebbin—do you recall Miss Crebbin?—she’s bringing her young man. However, I must mention that our lunch effectively becomes our Sunday dinner, since the girls are off the afternoon. Well, and now tell me how you are. " She possessed the crispness of a freshly unfolded rose, and conversed with Cosimo as though they had long enjoyed a friendship. Cosimo recalled the joke about Mrs. 'Ill, the plumber, Mr. Wellcome, and the chimney‑sweep. For a brief instant, Aunt Jerry had caught sight of Cosimo’s tweed suit. She had learned of Cosimo’s bereavement, but a loss can strike a tweed‑wearer as acutely as anyone else, and the quick glance seemed to suggest that it may not be entirely bad that the old custom of extravagant funerals—often at the expense of the living—was fading away. "We all must depart sometime," her brief silence implied, "and those who follow must bear the burdens we leave behind." Perhaps it was not all burden either. Aunt Jerry could not remember the exact number of acres, but she did recall that Cosimo was now eligible. Aunt Jerry told Cosimo that Amory had seemed adrift in recent weeks, especially when Mr. Massey arrived with Mrs. Deschamps. A few minutes later, Miss Crebbin arrived, accompanied by her young man, Mr. Allport. Mrs. Deschamps also greeted Cosimo, treating him as a familiar old friend. I shall never, ever forget that wedding day, Mr. Pratt! she exclaimed vivaciously. " That cake—the wretches! Yet they’re always up to mischief, rattling you to the core with a splash of jam on the tablecloth or a blot of ink on your book—you’ve seen them, Mr. Pratt; they’re a handful, and I’ve endured dreadful encounters with them. But I simply cannot call you 'Mr. Pratt.' It isn't like Glenerne here. I admit it's best to be on the safe side there, but at Oasthouse View we're a family party—aren't we, George? | 0.8 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Oliver, George | Oliver, George | 37584 | 45682 | Oliver, George_[Excellent Women]_1500_54_0.5 | Oliver, George_[Gray youth: The story of a very modern courtship and a very modern marriage]_1500_36_0.7 |
Yew-lane—cool and dark when the hottest sunshine lay beyond it—a loitering-place for lovers—the dearly loved play-place of generations of children on sultry summer days—looked very grim and vault-like, with narrow streaks of moonlight peeping in at rare intervals to make the darkness to be felt! Moreover, it was really damp and cold, which is not favorable to courage. At a certain point Yew-lane skirted a corner of the churchyard, and was itself crossed by another road, thus forming a "four-want-way," where suicides were buried in times past. This road was the old highroad, where the mail-coach ran, and along which, on such a night as this, a hundred years ago, a horseman rode his last ride. As he passed the church on his fatal journey, did anything warn him how soon his headless body would be buried beneath its shadow? Bill wondered. He wondered whether he was old or young, what kind of horse he rode, whose cruel hands had dragged him into the shadow of the yews and killed him, and where his head had been hidden, and why. Did the church look just the same, and the moon shine just as brightly, that night a century ago? Bully Tom was right. The weathercock and the moon sit still, whatever happens. The boy watched the gleaming highroad as it lay beyond the dark aisle of trees, till he fancied he could hear the footfalls of the solitary horse—and yet no! The echo hadn’t come from the hard road but from closer still; it wasn’t the clatter of hooves at all, but something subtler—a rustle—and at that moment Bill felt his blood freeze as a white, shrouded figure slipped out of the yews’ shade and glided slowly down the lane. When it reached the road it paused, raised a long arm warningly towards him for a moment, and then vanished in the direction of the churchyard. What would have been the consequence of the intense fright the poor lad experienced is more than any one can say, if at that moment the church clock had not begun to strike nine. The familiar sound, close in his ears, jolted him out of the initial shock, and before it had faded he mustered a desperate burst of courage, leapt across the road, and crossed the two fields that now lay between him and home without looking back. It was to her a real _grief of heart_, acute, as children's sorrows often are. " We beheld this from the opposite windows—and, seen thus from a little distance, how many of our own and of other people's sorrows might not seem equally trivial, and equally deserving of ridicule! " HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. When Bill got home he found the household busy with a much more practical subject than that of ghosts and haunted yew-trees. Bessy was ill. She had felt a pain in her side all the day, which towards night had become so violent that the doctor was sent for, who had pronounced it pleurisy, and had sent her to bed. He was just coming down-stairs as Bill burst into the house. The mother was too much occupied about her daughter to notice the lad's condition; but the doctor's sharp eyes saw that something was amiss, and he at once inquired what it was. Bill hammered and stammered, and stopped short. The doctor was such a tall, stout, comfortable-looking man, he looked as if he couldn't believe in ghosts. A slight frown however had come over his comfortable face, and he laid two fingers on Bill's wrist as he repeated his question. " Please sir," said Bill, "I've seen—" "A mad dog?" suggested the doctor. " No, sir." " A mad bull?" " No, sir," said Bill, desperately, "I've seen a ghost. " The doctor exploded into a fit of laughter, and looked more comfortable than ever. " And where did we see the ghost?" he inquired in a professional voice, as he took up his coat-tails and warmed himself at the fire. " In Yew-lane, sir; and I'm sure I did see it," said Bill, half crying; "it was all in white, and beckoned me. " " That's to say, you saw a white gravestone, or a tree in the moonlight, or one of your classmates dressed up in a table-cloth. It was all moonshine, depend upon it," said the doctor, with a chuckle at his own joke; "take my advice, my boy, and don't give way to foolish fancies. " At this point the mother spoke— "If his father knew, sir, as he'd got any such fads in his head, he'd soon flog 'em out of him. " " His father is a very good one," said the doctor; "a little too fond of the stick, perhaps. He added good-naturedly, slipping sixpence into Bill’s hand, “Get a new knife, my boy, and cut a good thick stick; and the next ghost you meet, lay hold of him and let him taste it.” Bill tried to thank him, but somehow his voice was choked, and the doctor turned to his mother. " The boy has been frightened," he said, "and is upset. Give him some supper, and put him to bed." And the good gentleman departed. Bill was duly feasted and sent to rest. His mother did not mention the matter to her husband, as she knew he would be angry; and occupied with real anxiety for her daughter, she soon forgot it herself. Consequently, the next night-school night she sent Bill to "clean himself," hurried on his tea, and packed him off, just as if nothing had happened. The boy's feelings since the night of the apparition had not been enviable. He could neither eat nor sleep. While lying in bed at night, he pressed his face into his clothes, fearing that glancing into the room would reveal the phantom of the murdered horseman beckoning from the dark corners. Lying there until dawn broke and the cocks began to crow, he glanced cautiously forward; in the gray light he saw the corners were empty and the figure by the door was not the Yew‑lane Ghost but his mother's faded printed dress hanging on a nail, so he lowered his head and fell wearily to sleep. The day offered no respite, for every hour pressed him closer to the next night‑school and Bessy's illness left his mother so absorbed that he could never find a suitable moment to ask her for sympathy about his fears, let alone gather the courage to face them. When night‑school rolled around again, he sat there, chewing a few bites, perplexed about how to tell his mother that he would never dare, could, or wish to walk down Yew‑lane again after dark. He had just opened his lips when the father came in, and asked in a loud voice "why Bill was not off." This effectually put a stop to any confidences, and the boy ran out of the house. Not, however, to school. He made one or two desperate efforts at determination, and then gave up altogether. He could not go! He was wondering what he should do with himself, when it struck him that he would go while it was daylight and look for the grave with the odd verse of which Bessy had spoken. He had no difficulty in finding it. It was marked by a large ugly stone, on which the inscription was green, and in some places almost effaced. SACRED TO THE MEMORY. OF EPHRAIM GARNETT— He had read so far when a voice close by him said— "You'll be late for school, young chap. " Bill looked up, and to his horror beheld Bully Tom standing in the road and kicking the churchyard wall. " Aren't you going!" he asked, as Bill did not speak. " Not to-night," said Bill, with crimson cheeks. " Larking, eh?" said Bully Tom. " My eyes, won't your father give it you! " and he began to move off. " Stop!" shouted Bill in an agony; "don't tell him, Tom. That would be a dirty trick. I'll go next time, I will indeed; I can't go to-night. I'm not larking, I'm scared. You won't tell?" " Not this time, maybe," was the reply; "but I wouldn't be in your shoes if you play this game next night;" and off he went. | I'd rather a sight leave him in prison—why, Bet, how white you air—I wouldn't be doing my dooty as a father ef I seed you a flinging of your 'andsome self away on a thief feller. " Granger was right when he said Bet's face had grown white. Her long fast, all the anguish and agitation she had undergone, and now this terrible last clause in the agreement she was making with her father, proved too much for her. She did not faint, as she had done in the morning; but she was absolutely incapable of replying. Her lips opened, it is true, but no articulate sound came from them. " I'm a bit weak," she managed to gasp at last; "I han't eaten nought to-day. " Granger fetched her a little water, and then volunteered to go out to bring in bread and tea. He remained baffled and irritated by Bet’s awareness of his actions, yet he relished having the girl and the boys back under his control and placed strong confidence in Dent’s diplomacy. Dent would soon settle things, and Bet should be his wife as quickly as the license could be purchased. The police were searching everywhere for a sailor called Dent. They dispatched detectives to the case, confident that before the week of Will’s remand had lapsed, they would locate the man and confirm whether Will’s story was true or otherwise. When it commenced it seemed quite an easy search; but the days flew quickly, and neither about the docks, nor loafing round the quays, could anyone least bearing Isaac Dent's description be found. His name was not on any ship's log, and the police came to the conclusion that Liverpool really did not contain him. They advertised—they even offered rewards for the slightest information; but no clue could they obtain. On the seventh day of Will's captivity they gave the matter up as a bad job, and said that the sailor Dent was not in the city. They were mistaken. Dent had never left his native shores. He paid no mind to where he lodged, relying on his talent for disguise; since the courts and slums of Liverpool were places no policeman dared to visit, Dent could slip past the authorities with ease. Granger, however, had found him out, and Granger and he had many colloquies, but not in a place where Mother Bunch could overhear. " I ain't afeard," said Dent. " They can do nought to me, nor to you neither, mate. I'd like to go to the police court—and I will, too. But it won't be to clear Will—by no means, but quite the contrairy. Only I don't choose the police to be dragging of me forward. I'll go when I has made terms with Bet, and not afore. " Then the men whispered together again, and laid their plans, which were quite as deep, and quite as wicked, as the most unprincipled could desire. Bet returned to Sparrow Street, earning Mother Bunch’s contempt and a bewildered, yet loyal, glance from Hester Wright—who, though she would not abandon her, could not understand Bet’s motives. She brought the boys home; and now her father's room in Sparrow Street was kept fairly neat, and the lads resumed the life which had been broken off at their mother's death. They shrank from their father, who, absorbed in other things, did not trouble them much just then; and they looked with great wonder and perplexity at Bet. She was no longer the old Bet; she hardly noticed them, never smiled when they approached, said nothing now about their being good boys, and never mentioned their mother's name to them. She spent all her time watching and listening, her face paling at the faintest sound, eyes fixed on her father whenever he entered, shunning Hester Wright, eating almost nothing, and draining her sleep in long, exhausting fits of weeping. Will's week in prison was nearly over, and Bet in the time had changed—changed so much that it almost seemed as if years had gone over her head. Her cheeks were thin, all the color had left her face, and her eyes looked now too bright and large for beauty. On the day previous to Will's again appearing before the magistrates the poor girl's restlessness became almost unbearable. Granger still gave her to understand that Dent was not in Liverpool. He would find him—yes, he said, he was certain to find him; but Bet did not know that he had done so, and her terrors were proportionately great. She could not sit still for a moment—but paced up and down, up and down the small room where her mother had died, like a caged animal. The captain and the general were off on expeditions of their own; hours passed, but no one came near the unhappy girl. At last, when her impatience had almost burst bounds, Granger arrived. " I ha' done it, Bet," he said. " It rests with you now—Dent is found. " " Thank God!" she exclaimed, involuntarily. She fell on her knees before her father and clasped his hands. " Feel how my heart beats," she said—"I were nearly going mad. Father, there'll never be a better daughter to you than me in all Christendom, from this time out. You ha' found Isaac Dent, and he'll be in the witness-box to save Will to-morrow. Thank God Almighty! There's hope yet in the world. " " I ha' found Dent," continued Granger, rubbing his rough sleeves across his mouth in a furtive manner. " I told him about Will, and he's willing to go to the police-court to-morrow—that is, ef you're agreeable. " " I agreeable, father?" Bet laughed excitedly. " You know my mind on that; and so does Dent. Why, I could almost find it in my heart to call him a good feller, ef he saves my lad. " " Ay, Bet—that's just it." Granger shuffled again, and would not meet his daughter's eye. " He wants you to call him a good fellow and to be especially kind to him, because he won’t help save Will Scarlett until you take your oath—as if you were to marry him. Ay, that's it, Bet—you ha' got to face it; by no other means can you set that lad of yourn free. You ha' got to face it, and Dent must have his answer to-night. " Bet did not speak at all for about a minute. " I feared as this might come," she said at last In a queer voice. " I did hope as God Almighty might have spared me. But it weren't to be. It's miles worse nor giving up my life. " She had been kneeling by her father; now she started to her feet, and wrapped the plaid shawl about her head and shoulders. " I'm going to Hester," she said. " I'll give you your answer when I comes back. " Bet walked quickly through the streets. She pushed back her hair under her plaid shawl: her eyes looked bright, and her step was once more firm and erect. " There are all kinds of love," she kept muttering to herself—"all kinds-there's the love that gives, and the love that gets. Seems to me that mine must be the love that gives. " A queer little smile came over her face as this thought entered her brain. She walked still more quickly, and clenched her strong hand, while resolution and the noble determination of self-sacrifice gave her a false strength. Bet was not ignorant of certain verses of the Bible. She had never read the Bible—her mother’s religious convictions made the idea of turning its pages unpalatable to her—yet biblical passages were often quoted at home, and one verse now rang in her memory: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend.” The words brought with them a healing sense of comfort. She really did not know from where they were taken, but she found herself repeating them, and she knew that if she really agreed to marry Dent, she would give up far more than her life for Will. | 0.9 | Young women -- Fiction | Mead, L. T. | Mead, L. T. | 28589 | 6142 | Mead, L. T._[Frances Kane's Fortune]_1500_34_0.1 | Mead, L. T._[A Girl of the People]_1500_28_0.1 |
And I need more help with the business I have now. I asked Captain Bruce to come back to Key West when he gets clear of his troubles in England. I told him that he would be with friends here, with folks who believed in him. I would trust him as a partner. He will never go wrong again. " "What did he say?" asked Dan and Bill McKnight in the same breath. "He was considerably touched. Said he would think it over, and thanked me, and went off to tell Prentice about it. He will come back to work with me some day, I am pretty sure. " A few weeks later Dan Frazier and Barton Pringle were waving their farewells to Key West from the deck of a mail steamer, northward bound to enter a preparatory school. Their mothers were standing together on the wharf and behind them towered the rugged figure of Captain Jim Wetherly. As the steamer drew away and the last "good-byes" were shouted across the water, Bart sighed and murmured to his friend: "Father ought to be there to see me off. I can't realize it yet, Dan. But I must try to live up to the example he set for me. I am so glad he and Captain Jim became good friends. It was the Kenilworth that brought them together. I reckon they were the same breed of men, only it took them a long time to find it out. " Dan looked across the harbor at the rusty Kenilworth which was almost ready to be towed away to a dry-dock. The sight of her thrilled him with memories of the hardships, dangers, and tragedy of the weeks of hard-fought battle on the Reef. It came over him that while he had won his salvage and his fondest dreams were coming true, perhaps Barton Pringle had won even richer and more enduring salvage in the bright memory of his father's last deed, a memory and an inspiration unmarred by the knowledge of anything less worthy. "I am proud of Uncle Jim," said Dan at length. "And you can always be proud of your father, Bart. " Presently the steamer passed the Resolute which lay at her wharf ready for sea. The chief engineer hurried into the wheel-house and pulled the whistle cord for all he was worth. The tug roared a hoarse farewell, and Dan gazed at her and the burly figure of Bill McKnight with glad affection in his eyes. They stood for something worth while to the boy who was leaving his shipmates to venture into strange waters and chart a new career. He had toiled among men who were fitly called "the Resolutes," and the lessons of duty he had learned afloat would not be soon forgotten ashore. Dan was thinking aloud as he said while he waved his cap at the powerful, seagoing tug in which he had played his part as a humble deck-hand: "I don't know what this preparatory school up north is going to be like, but I reckon if I can play the game so the Resolute won't be ashamed of me I'll come out all right." | And don't you let me hear you make a fuss about it. " "Not me," he sighed. "I know better. " Contentedly he submitted to this fond tyranny. After all, home was the only place where folks cared whether a man lived or died. He was in every respect so unlike this high-strung, unflagging wisp of a mother of his that the contrast amused him. She was a Chichester and ran true to type. Most of the women wore themselves out in middle age. Her energy burned like a flame. Idleness was a sin. In her turn she was perplexed by this strapping son of hers. He was rated as a highly successful young man, and yet, in her opinion, he lacked both zeal and industry—cardinal tenets of her New England creed. Sprawled upon the cushioned settle, he would drowsily stare at the fire for hours on end. He read very little and was not a loquacious person. An excellent listener, however, his mother's eager chatter about little things broke against his massive composure like ripples upon a rock. Now and then, in oddly silent moments, she studied him intently. Rugged, like his father, but there resemblance strangely halted. Matthew Cary's frame had been gaunt, his features harsh and shrewd with the enduring imprint of the Puritan tradition. Richard, the son, might have belonged to another race of men. The fair skin, the ruddy cheek roughened by strong winds and salt spray, the hair like minted gold, were unfamiliar among the recent generations of Carys and Chichesters. Handsome as a picture and as big as all outdoors, reflected the canny mother with a thrill of pride, but she actually felt like boxing his ears to wake him up. There was no soft streak in him, no weak fiber. This much she knew. His record at sea confirmed it. To call him hulking was absurd. There was courage in the level, tranquil gaze, and resolution was conveyed by the firm lips that smiled so readily. "What in the world do you think about when you sit there like a bump on a log?" impatiently exclaimed the mother. "Is it a girl? William has suffered from those moon-struck spells now and then, but at his age it's no more serious than chicken-pox. " "There's never been a girl that I thought of very long," dutifully answered Richard, his pipe between his teeth. "I'm not so anxious to meet the right one. Going to sea is poor stuff for a married man. They mean well enough, but I have seen too many lonely skippers and mates raising hell ashore. " "Don't you swear in this house, Richard. And I advise you to beware of low company. Sailors who have been properly brought up are true to their sweethearts and wives, like all decent folks. " "Yes'm," murmured her worldly young giant. "If Bill ground the axe, as I told him to, I guess I'll go and cut two or three cords of that pine growth. I need to limber up. " "Then please stop at the gate and get the mail, Richard. It must be in the box by this time. And don't you let that axe slip and cut your foot. I know you're a wonderful chopper, just like your father, but I always fret—" "Aye, mother. You never saw a man so careful of his own skin. At sea, now, I run no risks at all. " "Richard, you are joking. Please don't cross the pond. The ice is melted thin and rotten with this February thaw. You might fall in and catch your death o' cold. " Chief Officer Cary, veteran of the North Atlantic trade, promised to avoid getting wet in the pond. Axe on his shoulder, he passed through the lane to the highway. In the box nailed to a gatepost he found a letter from a seafaring friend in New York. It appeared to interest him. After a hasty glance, he read it with more care. What it said was this: MY DEAR DICK: I don't know what your plans are. If you have a job already cinched you are a lucky stiff. You can't throw a brick in this port without hitting an idle shipmaster. So far I haven't been chucked on the beach. The port captain of the Union Fruit Company is an old friend of mine. I told him about you yesterday. He needs a second officer in a passenger boat, the Tarragona, on the run to Kingston, Cartagena, and so on. Fine people to work for. None better. You may turn up your nose at the notion of going second mate, but they can't keep a good man down. The Tarragona sails next Wednesday. Wire me if you care to run down and size it up. Better come early and avoid the rush. The Spanish Main ahoy! Faithfully yours L. J. P. Richard Cary let the axe rest against the gate while he pondered in his deliberate fashion. At first it had annoyed him to think of stepping down a peg. He had been looking forward to command in two or three years more. But times were hard and the tenure of employment in cargo steamers uncertain. He might be shifting about, from one company to another, and if freight rates dropped much lower he would be likely to join the luckless mob of stranded officers. There was a prospect of advancement in the Union Fruit Company's service. A second mate's pay would meet his modest needs, with a surplus to send home. An easier life, decent men to handle, a smart, efficient ship—these were arguments not to be tossed aside. So much for the practical aspect of it. This was overshadowed, however, by the desire to make the southern run. It was more like an urgent impulse. Until now, voyaging in the tropic zones had never appealed to him. He had a Western Ocean sailor's pride in fighting bitter gales and pounding seas. Rather puzzled by his quick surrender to this summons, he turned back to the house and forgot to pick up the axe. He walked briskly, chin up, a man astir and efficient. Queer how a few lines of that letter had thrilled his matter-of-fact mind! He liked the sound of Cartagena and the Spanish Main. Where the devil was Cartagena? He knew there was a port of that name on the coast of Spain. This other one was somewhere in the Caribbean, down Colombia way, as he vaguely recalled. Into the kitchen swung Richard Cary and demanded to know where the atlas was kept. His mother wiped the flour from her hands and exclaimed: "First time I ever saw you in a hurry about anything except your meals. What under the sun ails you?" "Outward bound—the night train for New York. I want to find out where I go from there." His mellow voice rang through the low-studded rooms. His mother was dismayed. The sea had called her towering son and he was a different being. Almost timidly she said: "But you expected to make a longer visit, Richard. Why, you aren't really rested up. You sat around here—" "And enjoyed every minute of it," he broke in, with a boyish laugh. "Now I'm going south in a banana boat, where the flying fishes play. Do I have to pull this house down to break out the atlas?" "Mercy sakes, no! It's under the Bible on the parlor table where it has set for years. There's yellow fever and snakes down there, and how are you off for summer underwear?" With his chin in his hand he pored over the map of the Caribbean and the sailing tracks across that storied sea. Jamaica and the Isthmus of Panama! Thence his finger moved along the coast to Cartagena and Santa Marta and La Guayra. His kindled fancy played around the words. They were like haunting melody. It was an emotion curiously novel. To find anything like it, he had to hark back to the fairy tales of childhood. The feeling passed. His mother's anxious accents recalled him to himself. "But is it necessary, Richard, for you to rush off and take a second officer's position? Why don't you wait for something better? It's not a mite like you to fly off at a tangent like this. Common sense was always your strongest point. " "This is just the berth I want, I tell you," said he. "It sounds new and interesting. Now if you will help me get my dunnage together—clean clothes and so on—where's Bill?" "Gone to the village on an errand, Richard," was the meek answer. "He will be back in plenty of time to drive you to the train. Well, I've seen you wake up for once. | 1 | Adventure stories | Paine, Ralph D. (Ralph Delahaye) | Paine, Ralph D. (Ralph Delahaye) | 62176 | 65385 | Paine, Ralph D. (Ralph Delahaye)_[The Wrecking Master]_1500_25 | Paine, Ralph D. (Ralph Delahaye)_[Four Bells: A Tale of the Caribbean]_1500_2 |
" "My Reine," said Madame de Mirfleur, touched, but somewhat embarrassed, "you shall go with me, do not doubt it—if it pleases you to go. You are my child as much as Babette, and I love you just the same. A mother has not one measure of love for one and another for another. Do not think it, chérie. You shall go with me if you wish it, but you must not be so angry with Herbert. What are men? I have told you often they are not like us; they seek what they like, and their own way, and their own pleasures; in short, they are fools, as the selfish always are. Herbert is ungrateful to thee for giving up thy youth to him, and thy brightest years; but he is not so unkind as he seems—that which he said is not what he thinks. You must forgive him, ma Reine; he is ungrateful—" "Do I wish him to be grateful?" said the girl. "If one gives me a flower, I am grateful, or a glass of water; but gratitude—from Herbert—to me! Do not let us talk of it, for I cannot bear it. But since he does not want me, and finds me a trouble—mother, mother, take me home with you!" "Yes, chérie, yes; it shall be as you will," said Madame de Mirfleur, drawing Reine's throbbing head on to her bosom, and soothing her as if she had been still a child. She consoled her with soft words, with caresses, and tender tones. Probably she thought it was a mere passing fancy, which would come to nothing; but she had never crossed any of her children, and she soothed and petted Reine instinctively, assenting to all she asked, though without attaching to what she asked any very serious meaning. She took her favorite essence of orange flowers from her dressing-case, and made the agitated girl swallow some of it, and bathed her eyes with rose-water, and kissed and comforted her. "You shall do what pleases to you, ma bien aimée," she said. "Dry thy dear eyes, my child, and let us go to salute the cousin. He will think something is wrong. He will suppose he is not welcome; and we are not like men, who are a law to themselves; we are women, and must do what is expected—what is reasonable. Come, chérie, or he will think we avoid him, and that something must have gone wrong. " Thus adjured, Reine followed her mother to the sitting-room, where Everard had exhausted everything he had to say to Herbert, and everything that Herbert had to say to him; and where the two young men were waiting very impatiently, and with a growing sense of injury, for the appearance of the ladies. Herbert exclaimed fretfully that they had kept him waiting half the morning, as they came in. "And here is Everard, who is still more badly used," he cried; "after a long journey too. You need not have made toilettes, surely, before you came to see Everard; but ladies are all the same everywhere, I suppose! " Reine's eyes gave forth a gleam of fire. "Everywhere!" she cried, "always troublesome, and in the way. It is better to be rid of them. I think so as well as you. " Everard, who was receiving the salutations and apologies of Madame de Mirfleur, did not hear this little speech; but he saw the fire in Reine's eyes, which lighted up her proud sensitive face. This was not his Reine of the moonlight, whom he had comforted. And he took her look as addressed to himself, though it was not meant for him. She gave him her hand with proud reluctance. He had lost her then? it was as he thought. Reine did not go back from her resolution; she did not change her mind, as her mother expected, and forgive Herbert's étourderie. Reine could not look upon it as étourderie, and she was too deeply wounded to recover the shock easily; but I think she had the satisfaction of giving an almost equal shock to her brother, who, though he talked so about the limitation of a girl's understanding, and the superiority of his own, was as much wounded as Reine was, when he found that his sister really meant to desert him. He did not say a word to her, but he denounced to his mother the insensibility of women, who only cared for a fellow so long as he did exactly what they wished, and could not endure him to have the least little bit of his own way. "I should never have heard anything of this if I had taken her about with me everywhere, and gone to bed at ten o'clock, as she wished," he cried, with bitterness. "You have reason, mon 'Erbert," said Madame de Mirfleur; "had you cared for her society, she would never have left you; but it is not amusing to sit at home while les autres are amusing themselves. One would require to be an angel for this. " "I never thought Reine cared for amusement," said Herbert; "she never said so; she was always pleased to be at home; it must all have come on, her love for gayety, to spite me. " Madame de Mirfleur did not reply; she thought it wisest to say nothing in such a controversy, having, I fear, a deep-rooted contempt for the masculine understanding in such matters at least. En revanche, she professed the most unbounded reverence for it in other matters, and liked, as Miss Susan did, to consult "a man" in all difficult questions, though I fear, like Miss Susan, it was only the advice of one who agreed with her that she took. But with Herbert she was silent. What was the use? she said to herself. If he could not see that Reine's indifference to amusement arose from her affection for himself, what could she say to persuade him of it? and it was against her principles to denounce him for selfishness, as probably an English mother would have done. "Que voulez-vous? it is their nature," Madame de Mirfleur would have said, shrugging her shoulders. I am not sure, however, that this silence was much more satisfactory to Herbert than an explanation would have been. He was not really selfish, perhaps, only deceived by the perpetual homage that had been paid to him during his illness, and by the intoxicating sense of sudden emancipation now. As for Everard, he was totally dismayed by the announcement; all the attempts at self-assertion which he had intended to make failed him. As was natural, he took this, not in the least as affecting Herbert, but only as a pointed slight addressed to himself. He had left home to please her at Christmas, of all times in the year, when everybody who has a home goes back to it, when no one is absent who can help it. And though her invitation was no invitation, and was not accompanied by one conciliating word, he had obeyed the summons, almost, he said to himself, at a moment's notice; and she for whom he came, though she had not asked him, she had withdrawn herself from the party! Everard said to himself that he would not stay, that he would push on at once to Italy, and prove to her that it was not her or her society that had tempted him. He made up his mind to this at once, but he did not do it. He lingered next day, and next day again. He thought it would be best not to commit himself to anything till he had talked to Reine; if he had but half an hour's conversation with her he would be able to see whether it was her mother's doing. A young man in such circumstances has an instinctive distrust of a mother. Probably it was one of Madame de Mirfleur's absurd French notions. Probably she thought it not entirely comme il faut that Reine, now under her brother's guardianship, should be attended by Everard. Ridiculous! but on the whole it was consolatory to think that this might be the mother's doing, and that Reine was being made a victim of like himself. But (whether this also was her mother's doing he could not tell) to get an interview with Reine was beyond his power. He had no chance of saying a word to her till he had been at least ten days in Cannes, and the time of her departure with Madame de Mirfleur was drawing near. One evening, however, he happened to come into the room when Reine had stepped out upon the balcony, and followed her there hastily, determined to seize the occasion. | On the walls hung the portraits of the Scroopes for many generations past, some in armour, some in their robes of state, ladies with stiff bodices and high head-dresses, not beauties by Lely or warriors and statesmen by Kneller, but wooden, stiff, ungainly, hideous figures, by artists whose works had, unfortunately, been more enduring than their names. He was pacing up and down the room with a candle in his hand, trying to realize to himself what life at Scroope might be with a wife of his aunt's choosing, and his aunt to keep the house for them, when a door was opened at the end of the room, away from that by which he had entered, and with a soft noiseless step Miss Mellerby entered. She did not see him at first, as the light of her own candle was in her eyes, and she was startled when he spoke to her. His first idea was one of surprise that she should be wandering about the house alone at night. "Oh, Mr. Neville," she said, "you quite took me by surprise. How do you do? I did not expect to meet you here. " "Nor I you!" "Since Lord Scroope has been so ill, Lady Scroope has been sleeping in the little room next to his, downstairs, and I have just come from her. " "What do you think of my uncle's state?" "He is better; but he is very weak. " "You see him?" "Oh yes, daily. He is so anxious to see you, Mr. Neville, and so much obliged to you for coming. I was sure that you would come. " "Of course I came. " "He wanted to see you this afternoon; but the doctor had expressly ordered that he should be kept quiet. Good-night. I am so very glad that you are here. I am sure that you will be good to him. " Why should she be glad, and why should she be sure that he would be good to his uncle? Could it be that she also had been told the story of Kate O'Hara? Then, as no other occupation was possible to him, he took himself to bed. FRED NEVILLE'S SCHEME. On the next morning after breakfast Neville was taken into his uncle's chamber, but there was an understanding that there was to be no conversation on disagreeable subjects on this occasion. His aunt remained in the room while he was there, and the conversation was almost confined to the expression of thanks on the part of the Earl to his nephew for coming, and of hopes on the part of the nephew that his uncle might soon be well. One matter was mooted as to which no doubt much would be said before Neville could get away. "I thought it better to make arrangements to stay a fortnight," said Fred,—as though a fortnight were a very long time indeed. "A fortnight!" said the Earl. "We won't talk of his going yet," replied Lady Scroope. "Supposing I had died, he could not have gone back in a fortnight," said the Earl in a low moaning voice. "My dear uncle, I hope that I may live to see you in your own place here at Scroope for many years to come." The Earl shook his head, but nothing more was then said on that subject. Fred, however, had carried out his purpose. He had been determined to let them understand that he would not hold himself bound to remain long at Scroope Manor. Then he wrote a letter to his own Kate. It was the first time he had addressed her in this fashion, and though he was somewhat of a gallant gay Lothario, the writing of the letter was an excitement to him. If so, what must the receipt of it have been to Kate O'Hara! He had promised her that he would write to her, and from the moment that he was gone she was anxious to send in to the post-office at Ennistimon for the treasure which the mail car might bring to her. When she did get it, it was indeed a treasure. To a girl who really loves, the first love letter is a thing as holy as the recollection of the first kiss. "May I see it, Kate?" said Mrs. O'Hara, as her daughter sat poring over the scrap of paper by the window. "Yes, mamma,—if you please." Then she paused a moment. "But I think that I had rather you did not. Perhaps he did not mean me to shew it. " The mother did not urge her request, but contented herself with coming up behind her child and kissing her. The reader, however, shall have the privilege which was denied to Mrs. O'Hara. DEAREST KATE, I got here all alive yesterday at four. I came on as fast as ever I could travel, and hardly got a mouthful to eat after I left Limerick. I never saw such beastliness as they have at the stations. My uncle is much better,—so much so that I shan't remain here very long. I can't tell you any particular news,—except this, that that old cat down at Castle Quin,—the one with the crisp-curled wig,—must have the nose of a dog and the ears of a cat and the eyes of a bird, and she sends word to Scroope of everything that she smells and hears and sees. It makes not the slightest difference to me,—nor to you I should think. Only I hate such interference. The truth is old maids have nothing else to do. If I were you I wouldn't be an old maid. I can't quite say how long it will be before I am back at Ardkill, but not a day longer than I can help. Address to Scroope, Dorsetshire,—that will be enough;—to F. Neville, Esq. Give my love to your mother.—As for yourself, dear Kate, if you care for my love, you may weigh mine for your own dear self with your own weights and measures. Indeed you have all my heart. Your own F. N. There is a young lady here whom it is intended that I shall marry. She is the pink of propriety and really very pretty;—but you need not be a bit jealous. The joke is that my brother is furiously in love with her, and that I fancy she would be just as much in love with him only that she's told not to.—A thousand kisses. It was not much of a love letter, but there were a few words in it which sufficed altogether for Kate's happiness. She was told that she had all his heart,—and she believed it. She was told that she need not be jealous of the proper young lady, and she believed that too. He sent her a thousand kisses; and she, thinking that he might have kissed the paper, pressed it to her lips. At any rate his hand had rested on it. She would have been quite willing to shew to her mother all these expressions of her lover's love; but she felt that it would not be fair to him to expose his allusions to the "beastliness" at the stations. He might say what he liked to her; but she understood that she was not at liberty to shew to others words which had been addressed to her in the freedom of perfect intimacy. "Does he say anything of the old man?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "He says that his uncle is better. " "Threatened folks live long. Does Neville tell you when he will be back?" "Not exactly; but he says that he will not stay long. He does not like Scroope at all. I knew that. He always says that,—that—" "Says what, dear?" "When we are married he will go away somewhere,—to Italy or Greece or somewhere. Scroope he says is so gloomy. " "And where shall I go?" "Oh, mother;—you shall be with us, always. " "No, dear, you must not dream of that. When you have him you will not want me. " "Dear mother. I shall want you always. " "He will not want me. We have no right to expect too much from him, Kate. That he shall make you his wife we have a right to expect. If he were false to you—" "He is not false. Why should you think him false?" "I do not think it; but if he were—! Never mind. If he be true to you, I will not burden him. If I can see you happy, Kate, I will bear all the rest." That which she would have to bear would be utter solitude for life. She could look forward and see how black and tedious would be her days; but all that would be nothing to her if her child were lifted up on high. | 0 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant | Trollope, Anthony | 52388 | 16804 | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant_[Whiteladies]_1500_92 | Trollope, Anthony_[An Eye for an Eye]_1500_19 |
" "But, Vincent, a cheque——" He smiled, pulled a cheque-book out of his pocket, and wrote. Tearing out a leaf, he handed it to Angelica. She stared at it. " What do you mean?" she cried. Polly looked over her shoulder. " Please don't joke, Vincent," she said. " Please give her what is due her. " He had written a cheque for ten thousand dollars. My dear Polly, any cheque I issue would be just as absurd. There's nothing in the bank. " " Then where is it, Vincent?" " I've told you. My investments——" "But my income? Surely that——" He began to show irritability. " I tell you," he said, "that it's all gone. Now, for God's sake, my dear soul, go away! Can't you see I'm trying to write?" " But my income——" "Oh, you and your damned income!" he shouted. " You women and your beastly greed! Haven't you any soul? Can't you think of anything but money?" " No, I can't, Vincent, just now. It's a very serious matter," said Polly, gravely. He jumped up with an oath. " "It's all gone for the next two years," he cried. You left it to my judgment. I've used my judgment. And yet you whine and snivel over your paltry pocketful of pennies. By God, I'm entitled to it! All of this doesn’t even come close to the cost you impose on me each month—your clothes and your day‑to‑day expenses. Do you mean that we can't pay Angelica?" " Good God! Is your head made of wood? Or are you getting senile?" Polly pressed on, heedless of his rudeness, as a rock is to the spray that lashes over it. Quiet and resolute, she pursued her investigations. Her money defined her existence—her calm, her liberty, her dignity, and her peace—yet she knew she could earn no more and that no other man could give it to her. She must have it! Angelica observed her with profound admiration. Although she was eager to pursue her own best interests and, as she fancied, to safeguard her life, she could not remain so calm and self‑controlled. “Are you saying we have nothing?” I do not! We have all sorts of things—paintings, books, your jewelry. Simply we have no money. Now let me alone! " " But what do you propose doing?" she asked. " We can't go on, like this, without a penny. How do you propose to pay Angelica?" He lifted his upper lip in a harsh, cruel sneer. Oh, you don't know, do you? Of course not! You're perfectly innocent, aren't you? You never suspected, did you, who paid for the clothes on your back? It'll be such a shock to you, dear soul! In times of need, we must turn to Eddie. He'll pay Angelica, pay me, and pay you too. God bless Eddie! " That blow told. Polly winced under it. She slowly turned away and stepped out of the room. Angelica trailed her, glancing back from the doorway as Vincent once again took up the pen. II Angelica had started an avalanche. She was deeply impressed and interested. She had no wish to leave at that moment; she yearned to witness the remarkable climax. Events moved with satisfactory speed. Polly hurried into Mrs. Russell’s room, only to find her having just returned home from a lively card‑party in Belgium. They closed the door and remained locked inside for a long time. They must, of course, have called the two unhappy, disturbed gentlemen by telephone—who arrived later that afternoon in a car. When they arrived, everyone flocked into the library, where Vincent was still seated. There was a dreadful scene. Polly’s lawyer and the trustee of her first husband’s estate arrived and immediately launched a fierce attack on Vincent. Without legal training or prudence, the trustee shouted threats at Vincent, who retorted in a bull‑like growl. He was beside himself with fury. The lawyer attempted to silence them both with intimidation, yet he himself was appalled and outraged by their ignorance of what constituted libel, which left his arguments weak. Polly was distressed, but resolute. " No!" she implored the raging trustee. " No, Frank, _don't_, please! Find out exactly what has happened and see what you can recover for me. Don't trouble to quarrel with him. " Vincent turned on her. " Yes!" he screamed in a high, hysterical voice. " Yes! You'll fight to defend your money, at least! You don't care about anything else. Even while I was off with other women, your damned self‑satisfaction never pierced. said his mother in a low, shocked voice. " Very well! Very well!" he cried. " I don't mind them knowing. I took her meager income and spent it on other women. For God's sake, who wouldn't? Look at her! Just tell him that I plan to leave him immediately, obtain a divorce, and require him to relinquish any authority he has claimed over me. That will be arranged, Mrs. Geraldine," said the lawyer. Suddenly Mrs. Russell began to cry. " Oh, Polly!" she said. " Don't give the poor boy up! Give him another chance! Oh, do, do, do!" She stopped suddenly. Vincent, too, stopped his violence and his curses. Eddie had come in. Eddie's unique talent had never before been so clearly exhibited. He had never before had an opportunity to show what kind of man he truly was. He dominated the situation and held command over everyone. He brushed off the clamour and furious arguments, yearning only for information, confident in his skill to secure it. He mainly spoke to the lawyer, and from time to time directed a question at Polly. He listened intently, and one could almost read the workings of his fair, lucid mind reflected on his face. Angelica watched him through the keyhole. It wasn’t the Eddie she needed—he was the one who faltered in her presence, swayed by simply one look from her dark eyes. He was a man beyond her influence, undeniably superior, and utterly outstanding. She listened to him speaking. He addressed Vincent with calm, detached disdain, assuring him he would return to Polly the amount Vincent had wrongfully taken. When he stepped out of the library, he told Angelica, “I’ll also apologize to you for everything you’ve had to endure in my house.” I think you're quite right to leave. If you go upstairs now, I'll discuss the matter with these gentlemen. You and I can discuss it later. " III So it was over. The house fell quiet again, each of them confined to their own rooms. Angelica went to Polly's door and knocked. " It's Angelica," she said. " Anything I can do for you?" After a long pause, Polly’s faint, mournful voice finally answered, “No, thank you!” So then where should she turn but, naturally, to Eddie? She was very unhappy. She felt deeply ashamed of herself—lonely, cast aside, and disgraced. Polly would surely have told Eddie—perhaps already had—everything Angelica had revealed about the disgraceful affair with Vincent, and in doing so would have lost, or perhaps already had lost, his regard. Just when she needed it most—after Vincent had cruelly rejected her. Still, I want to see him," she whispered to herself. Anyway, he won’t abandon me, even if he thinks I’ve been awful! She couldn't find him for a long time. She drifted aimlessly through the house, a soul adrift, until she finally spotted him on the veranda, a cigarette burning beside him in the crisp October evening. Mr. Eddie!" she said softly, from the doorway. " Oh! Yes?" he answered pleasantly. " Is it you, Angelica? Do you want anything?" " "I just wanted to speak to you," she said. "Shall I come in?" "I'll step out," she offered, pleased to speak in the dark, and haphazardly made her way to the corner where the light of his cigar glowed. It's a dark night," he said. " It's—sad out here," said Angelica. " So—damp, and all. " " There's a big storm coming. I wanted to speak to you, Angelica. I'm very glad you came. I wanted—I've some money that's due you. You see, I'm going away to-morrow. " " Going where?" " "I'm headed to a training camp before I head out to France, you know." Oh, dear!" she cried, with quite genuine dismay. " Oh, Mr. Eddie, I am sorry! | My eyes filled as I looked, and a strong desire seized me to know what had defaced this little picture of the mother whom I never knew. " Uncle, tell me about her—I know so little and often long to learn more. Am I like her, sir?" Why did my uncle avert his gaze as he replied, “You are a youthful image of her, Sybil”? Please, tell me more—why is it so stained and worn? You know everything, and I’m old enough now to hear any tale of pain and loss. A sudden unease made my uncle knit his brows, yet his uninflected voice held steady as he slid the photograph into my hands and recounted the tale: “Just before your birth your father was compelled to cross the Channel to fulfil a dying friend’s final wishes; an accident ensued—a ship foundered, and many lives were taken.” He escaped, but an error put his name on the list of missing passengers; when your mother saw it she was devastated, and when your father returned he found only a motherless little daughter awaiting him. That miniature, which he’d always carried with him, was tucked away among his papers in the dying moments; even though sea‑water had ruined it, he never had it copied or restored, and on his death he gave it to me as a memorial to the woman he loved. It is now yours, my child—hold it close and never think you are fatherless or motherless while I live. Though his actions and words were kind, they did not touch me, as though something was missing. I felt it, but could not name it, for at that moment I believed in the sincerity of everyone I met. Where was she buried, uncle? I know it may sound foolish, but I long to see my mother's grave. I told him, “You will someday, Sybil,” and my uncle’s expression shifted as he averted his gaze. I had turned him melancholy by speaking of Guy’s mother and my own; now I would make him joyful again, and rouse that negligent boy," I thought, drawing my uncle into a lounge chair, positioning myself at his elbow and keeping him laughing with my most effervescent gossip, both of us apparently oblivious to the long, dark figure stretched opposite us, feigning sleep yet watching us through half‑closed lids, never stirring except to bow silently to my careless “Good‑night.” When I reached the stairhead, I remembered that my letter to Madame—laden with my most candid criticisms of people and things—lay open on the table in the small room my uncle had set apart as my boudoir; fearing the servants’ eyes and tongues, I slipped down again to retrieve it. The room, adjacent to the parlors, was illuminated only by a single shaft of light from the hall lamp. After securing the letter, I was about to retreat when Guy answered with a petulant, almost submissive tone, saying, “I am civil when you leave me alone; I do agree to marry her, but I won’t be hurried or go wooing her except in my own way.” You know I never liked that bargain—it seemed empty—but I can accept being sold if it eases your burden and provides a home for both of us. Father, beware: if you tie my arm to that girl's sash too tightly, I’ll break free entirely—so where will we be then? I will be in prison, while you drift as a homeless vagabond. Trust me, boy, and accept the good fortune I’ve secured for you from the cradle. Gaze upon Sybil’s pretty face and resignation will arrive with ease; yet remember that time presses, this is our forlorn hope, and for God’s sake be cautious, for she is headstrong and may refuse to fulfill her part if she learns the contract is not binding against her will. I’m convinced she’ll accept it, sir; she already has a liking for me. I can see it in her eyes; she says she has never had a lover, and, as you noted, a girl’s first sweetheart tends to fare the best. Besides, she likes the place because I told her it belonged to her, as you instructed, and she said she would be very happy there. She said that, did she? little hypocrite! Read it yourself for your father and tell me what else she babbled about during that early tête‑à‑tête of yours. You are as curious as a woman, sir, always pressing me to reveal everything I do and say, yet you never return the favor—except when it comes to this arrangement, which I detest because it costs my liberty and leaves my poor little cousin in the dark. Father, before I marry her I will tell her everything. As you please, hot-head. I’m waiting for a recollection of my first love; set aside the blush, Sybil, and begin. I knew what was coming and left at once, catching only a fleeting glimpse of Guy in his favorite spot—standing on the rug, half‑laughing, half‑frowning as he hesitated before speaking—while my uncle calmly smoked on the couch; I hurried to my room, and as I settled into a surge of passion, I thought: “He knows about the arranged betrothal and despises it, yet submits to please his father, who covets my fortune—mercenary creatures.” Am I able to annul the contract? I am delighted to discover that this grants me authority over both. I like you already, do I? and you can see it reflected in my eyes. Coxcomb! I'll be the thornier for that. Yet I truly like him; I wish he would care for me because I feel so lonely, and yet he is undeniably kind. I wept softly, ran my fingers through my hair, and made a nightly promise to learn all I could—each hastily chosen moment, each whispered conversation—so that I might become irresistible, coax Guy into loving me against his own will, and ultimately decide with my heart, whether to accept or refuse. That day foreshadowed what came afterward, as my cousin alternately found himself drawn to and repelled by my capricious moods. Though I was aware of a hidden distrust for my uncle, I could not resist the allure of his manner when he chose to exert his influence over me; it made my scheme easier to carry out, as jealousy seemed the most effective means of bringing my wayward cousin under my sway. Wrapped in this fantasy, I grew weary of his company, turning as prickly as a briar rose toward him, yet tender as a daughter toward my uncle. He watched us both with his inscrutable gaze, and over time he yielded to my influence, as if he had sensed my intent and wished to aid it. Guy’s countenance grew cold and somber, yet he lingered close to me, as though awaiting a softening glance or a gentile word. I delighted in it, taking reckless pleasure in lengthening the humiliation of the warm heart I’d come to love, yet never valuing it as I ought, until it was too late. One dull November evening, as I meandered up and down the hall feigning delight at the flowers while secretly waiting for Guy—who had abandoned me all day—my uncle emerged from his room, where he had sat for hours with the harried, anxious look he always wore whenever foreign letters arrived. "Sybil, I have something to show you," he said, as I brushed a dash of heliotrope into his buttonhole, hoping the inattentive observer would grasp its meaning. My uncle led me into the drawing‑room, handing me a sheet and saying, “Here’s a copy of your father’s will; I’d like you to read it.” He watched my face, surely intrigued by my composure as I waded through the dry details of the will, holding back my impatience for the key passage. There it was, but nothing mentioned my power to dissolve the engagement at will; as I grasped this, a wave of bewilderment and helplessness swept over me, for the obscure legal terms seemed to irrevocably cement a paternal decree I had never seen before. I forgot my studied calmness, and asked several questions eagerly. | 0.3 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Holding, Elisabeth Sanxay | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May) | 68800 | 54212 | Holding, Elisabeth Sanxay_[Angelica]_1500_33_0.3 | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May)_[A Modern Mephistopheles, and A Whisper in the Dark]_1500_24_0.8 |
'Do you want to know whom I mean, Natalya Alexyevna?' Alexandra Pavlovna paused, caught off‑guard for a moment, then let a smile spread across her face. Really,' she began, 'what queer ideas you always have! Natalya is still a child, and besides—if there is any truth in what you say, do you think Darya Mihailovna— Nonsense! How could she manage with only one nod and a single majestic glance, and yet have everything end and obedience restored? That's what she imagines: she sees herself as a woman‑like Maecenas, a learned lady, and whatever else that might mean, but in reality she is just a foolish, worldly old woman. But Natalya is not a baby; believe me, she thinks more deeply than you and I do. Her most genuine, passionate, and ardent nature must be drawn to an actor—a flirt like this! But of course, that’s simply how things naturally unfold. A flirt! Do you mean that he is a flirt?' ' Of course he is. Please tell me, Alexandra Pavlovna, what role does he occupy in Darya Mihailovna’s household? To be the household idol and oracle, to meddle in its arrangements, and to indulge in gossip and petty trifles—does that truly constitute a dignified position for a man? Alexandra Pavlovna looked at Lezhnyov in surprise. ' I don't know you, Mihailo Mihailitch," she began to say. You are flushed and excited. I’m convinced that something else must be lurking beneath this. Oh, so that's it! If you speak a woman the truth with conviction, she will never find peace until she invents a petty, unrelated pretext—exactly the one that compelled you to say it in that precise way. Alexandra Pavlovna began to get angry. ' Bravo, Monsieur Lezhnyov! You seem to grow as bitter toward women as Mr. Pigasov himself, yet even with your keen insight, I find it hard to believe you truly understand everyone and everything. I think you are mistaken. From your perspective, Rudin is somewhat akin to Tartuffe. No, the point is that he is not even a Tartuffe. Tartuffe at least understood his aim, yet this fellow—no matter how clever—seemed oblivious to the real stakes. Finish your sentence, you unjust, horrid man!' Lezhnyov got up. ' Listen, Alexandra Pavlovna, it is you who is unjust, not I; you are cross with me for my harsh criticism of Rudin, and I have the right to speak harshly of him. I have paid dearly enough, perhaps, for that privilege. I know him well, having spent many years living alongside him. You remember that I promised to tell you sometime about our life in Moscow. It is clear that I must do so now. Will you have the patience to listen to what I have to say? Tell me, tell me!' ' Very well, then.' Lezhnyov began to pace around the room in deliberate strides, pausing from time to time with his head bowed. "You know, perhaps, or perhaps not, that I was orphaned early in life, and by the time I turned seventeen had nobody to hold me accountable." I lived with my aunt in Moscow and did whatever I liked. When I was a boy, I was rather foolish and conceited, and I relished bragging and showing off. After enrolling at university, I behaved like a typical schoolboy and, shortly thereafter, found myself embroiled in a quarrel. I won't tell you about it; it's not worth while. I lied about it—and it was a shameful lie. Everything came to light, and I was subjected to public humiliation. I lost my head and cried like a child. It took place in a friend’s room before a large number of fellow students gathered. All of them began to jeer at me, except for one student—who, I noted, felt far more indignant toward me than anyone else, as long as I stayed obstinate and refused to confess my deceit. He seemed to feel pity for me, if only in some semblance; either way, he took my arm and guided me toward his lodging. Was that Rudin?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna. ' No—this was not Rudin, but another man, now deceased, whose extraordinary spirit left a lasting impression. His name was Pokorsky. I cannot sum him up in a few words; when I speak of him, I simply cannot bring anyone else to mind. He had a noble, pure heart and an intellect unlike any I had ever encountered. Pokorsky dwelled in a modest, low‑pitched chamber within the attic of an old wooden house. He was barely above destitution, yet he managed to survive by offering lessons. There were moments when he didn’t even have a cup of tea to offer his friends, and his only sofa wobbled so badly that it felt like being aboard a ship. Despite the hardships, many people still came to see him. Every one loved him; he drew all hearts to him. No one could have imagined how sweet and joyful it was to sit in his humble little room! It was in his room I met Rudin. He had already parted from his prince before then.' ' What was there so exceptional in this Pokorsky?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna. ' How can I tell you? The blend of poetry and truth is what drew all of us to him. Though his intellect was clear and expansive, he remained as sweet and unpretentious as a child. Even now his bright laugh rings in my ears, and at the same time he lit his midnight lamp before the holy and the true—as the dear, half‑cracked fellow, the poet of our set, once expressed. And how did he talk?' Alexandra Pavlovna questioned again. ' He could speak eloquently when he felt inclined, but beyond that his talking was hardly remarkable. Rudin even then was twenty times as eloquent as he.' Lezhnyov stood still and folded his arms. ' Pokorsky and Rudin were very unlike. Rudin exhibited a stronger flash and brilliance, greater fluency, and perhaps even more enthusiasm. He seemed far more gifted than Pokorsky, yet in every measure he remained a poorer creature by comparison. Rudin excelled at developing ideas and was a formidable debater, yet he rarely produced concepts of his own—most of his insights were appropriated from others, especially from Pokorsky. Pokorsky was quiet and gentle—his appearance even frail—and he adored women to excess, indulged in dissipation, and would never tolerate an insult from anyone. Rudin projected fiery enthusiasm and vigor, yet at his core he was cold and nearly cowardly; as soon as his vanity was provoked, he would pursue every pursuit without restraint. He perpetually sought to dominate others, yet he framed his ambition in terms of universal principles and ideas, and in doing so he undeniably exerted a powerful influence over many. Truth be told, no one loved him—except perhaps me, the only one who was attached to him. They submitted to his yoke, but all were devoted to Pokorsky. Rudin never declined to argue or discuss with anyone he encountered. He didn’t read extensively, yet he read far more than Pokorsky and the rest of us; moreover, his mind was well‑organized, his memory prodigious, and he had a profound impact on young people. They may hold generalisations and conclusions—perhaps even incorrect ones, if you like—but in the end, they’re still conclusions. A perfectly sincere man never suits them. Tell young people that you can't give them the whole truth, and they’ll simply ignore you. But you mustn't deceive them either. You want to accept only part of the truth, believing that you possess it. This is why Rudin left such a powerful impression on us all. I just told you that, though he hadn’t read widely, he did study philosophical works, and his mind was structured to immediately pull out the core principles from what he read, cut straight to their essence, and then generate brilliant, sound deductions in every direction—opening a vast horizon for the soul. At that time our troupe was composed only of boys—none of whom were particularly well‑informed. Philosophy, art, science, and even life itself were all mere words to us—ideas if you like, fascinating and magnificent ideas, but disconnected and isolated. | But as he reached the further end of the hall, fronting Broadway, he perceived, to his amazement, that the oranges which should be there had disappeared. He stopped, with ear on edge, listening for a sound, but no sound returned. Then he went along on tiptoe, vastly intrigued. There was the door of Lorenzo P. Drinkwater, counsellor-at-law. But there was no sign of any one's being up. Neither that stall nor the next, bearing the names of Miss Belle Shaler and Miss Pansy Hartmann, carried a placard that read “Out for lunch.” Leave messages with elevator-man. Miss Angelica Quirley's room was likewise dark, as was the next of Miss Millie Brewster. Opposite, through the mist‑cloaked glass door inscribed “Aristide Jean‑Marie Cornelius,” a faint streak of yellow shimmered—a subtle, unmistakable clue. By Jove, it's the baron!" he said to himself, and he remained a long moment, stock-still, in surprise. " Wonder if the poor devil is actually hungry. He whispered, “Well, if he is—,” and, carried by a sudden impulse, gently lined up three oranges before tiptoeing away. Back in the studio, he lifted the letter from his lips, read it with curious eyes, and then slipped it into King O’Leary’s stocking, as if compelled by a desperate scrawl. He approached the two sleepers, draped a blanket over each, and paused to observe the newcomer who intruded upon their world like a drop of rain through a skylight, drawing his own conclusions as a wise young philosopher rather than a judge or a sinner. King O’Leary lay with his head upon an outstretched arm whose skin bore green-inked tattoos, his hair neatly swept aside to reveal a clear, friendly forehead, while his face flushed and tightened in a painful frown, as if still simmering with the fever of tormenting recollections. Not the sort that bats for nothing," thought Tootles. " The kind that drinks to forget. Wonder what the deuce is back of it all, old boy. Well, you wouldn't make a bad Santa Claus at that! " He dimmed the lights one by one—first the great green Chinese dragon beckoning in mid‑air, its belly swallowing a glowing bulb, then the twin yellow shades beside the door, upheld by tarnished brass Liberty statues—leaving only the four yellow eyes of the owls to glow in the upper darkness. He carefully pulled the electric button out of Flick’s relaxed fingers, de‑energised it, and tiptoed over—gratefully heading toward bed. IV The oldest inhabitant of the sixth floor—an elderly Frenchman named Mr. Cornelius—had settled there long before Mr. Teagan inherited the Arcade from his uncle. He occupied a corner room on the courtyard overlooking the square, where a single providential arc‑light—sputtering and furnace‑white—illuminated his space once the curtains were drawn, eliminating the need for any other lighting amid the thunder of the elevated, the grind of the traffic, and the shrill of newsboys that rolled through. It was custom for others to say that he once occupied the large studio at the far end and, over time, moved down the hallway to his present quarters—an address valued above others because of Broadway’s clamor. Mr. Cornelius, in his sixties, stood tall and spry, the slight frame of his body poised and lively, his snow‑white mustache—styled after Emperor Napoleon III—contrasting sharply with his dusky Spanish‑tanned complexion, while his mellow‑brown eyes continued to speak with a quiet eloquence. His features were slender and finely chiseled, his nose a delicate point, and a single brow lifted perpetually, lending him an ever‑alert countenance. In his youth he must have been strikingly handsome, a dashing, wild‑animal allure that captivated women. He lived in seclusion yet was scrupulously polite to anyone he met in the elevator; however, he would only open his door to one person—Miss Pansy Hartmann, whose confidence he had earned and who posed for his dilettante sketches. Their trysts amused him, especially as she read aloud from the yellowed volumes he had gathered—Pascal’s works, Madame de Sévigné’s correspondence, and the writings of Voltaire—even though she could not understand a single word. He wore a nightcap with a tassel, and for days he never left his room, only occasionally slipping into a faded peacock‑blue dressing‑gown. Every Sunday, he slipped on a meticulously clean, though slightly worn, Prince Albert coat, tucked in a black stock, pulled out a swirled top‑hat from a treasure chest—Victor Hugo’s favored style—tilted it just over one ear, and, with gloves and a silver‑studded cane in hand, walked splendidly to church and back again. Several things were inexplicable in his habits. No one could tell when he slept, and curious whirring noises were heard above the transom after nightfall. For the first few days of each month—occasionally two nights, but never more than three—he would don his finest attire, hail a cab from the hotel opposite, and order the chauffeur to take him to Delmonico’s. When he returned, Sassafras always noticed a gardenia in his button-hole. He trudged through the remainder of the month, and no one knew how—except little Pansy, who, by feigning care for the parrot, his sole companion, deftly left a third of a bottle of milk and a generous portion of bread each day. Adjacent to Mr. Cornelius’s “Barron” desk, a diminutive elderly lady—Miss Angelica Quirley—had lived for a decade with her shivering, jerky black‑and‑tan terrier, Rudolph, a name perhaps memorializing an ill‑fated romance, whose uncanny knack for rousing the Arcade with a bark at the slightest ember earned him the nickname “fire‑hound.” Miss Quirley spent her days adorning dolls for toy shops, restoring cherished ones, and painting rosy smiles onto china cheeks, all to delight the hearts of children unseen. She was flustered whenever she had to pass anyone, and even from a few yards away she began bobbing her graying curls until the gold‑rimmed spectacles almost fell off, making her look like a fairy godmother to all who saw her. Children would have flocked to her knee, only, unfortunately, there were no children there. Miss Quirley kept bobbing her head and smiling, wishing someone would listen, but she never quite gathered the courage to seek a friendship. Every morning she would timidly glance from her doorway to confirm no one could see her, then hurriedly step out in her wrapper and slippers to fetch the milk and rolls. Next to Miss Quirley stood Lorenzo Pinto Drinkwater, a newly arrived Portuguese‑American lawyer with an office on the second floor, whose movements were shrouded in an instinctive air of mystery and who was reputed to both practice his trade and loan money at generous returns. He possessed a lank, ribbed Yankee physique, so tall that his head seemed to hover above the transom. His face was striking, bearing a dark, gypsy allure, and though his eyes were sly, they held a vivid, captivating charm. He dressed loudly, and spoke in a confidential whisper. He tried several times to approach the baron, whose intrigue had stirred his curiosity, yet Mr. Cornelius, though usually courteous, rebuffed him outright. Across the passage from the elevator to the hall, next to King O'Leary's room, stood Miss Myrtle Popper—a skilled manicurist and marcel‑waver—who watched O'Leary at the Arcade in front of Joey Shine's barber shop, thoughtfully considering whom he might give a present to. From New Hartford, Connecticut, she came yearning for the greater advantages of metropolitan society; tall and clear‑eyed, her Juno‑like figure was undeniably stunning, her youth vibrant, her health radiant, her green eyes ever smiling, and her ruddy hair curled in miraculous coils. She had thoroughly enjoyed her first winter in New York society, and was slangy, pert, calmly determined to be amused and as equally determined to hold her head high, quite capable of taking care of herself, a democrat by association and a philosopher by a native shrewdness, amusing and amused. | 0.2 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Toergenev, Ivan | Johnson, Owen | 6900 | 47640 | Toergenev, Ivan_[Rudin: A Novel]_1500_14_0.6 | Johnson, Owen_[The Woman Gives: A Story of Regeneration]_1500_8_0.6 |
Instinctively he leaped into the fire, and as he leaped, he felt the sharp slash of teeth that tore through the flesh of his leg. Then began a fire fight. His sturdy gloves shielded his hands for a moment as he flung living coals into the air, turning the campfire into a miniature volcano. But it could not last long. He felt his face blister under the blaze, his eyebrows and lashes singed away, and the heat began to suffocate even his feet. With a flaming brand in each hand, he sprang to the edge of the fire. The wolves had been driven back. Where the live coals had fallen, the snow crackled and hissed, and every so often a lone wolf would leap, snort, and snarl, proclaiming that another ember had been stepped on. He hurled his flaming torches toward the nearest of his foes, thrusting the smoking mittens into the snow and stomping about to cool his feet. His two dogs were missing, and he knew well that they had been part of the long banquet that began days earlier with Fatty—he feared the final course would likely be himself. You ain't got me yet!" He shouted, shaking his fist wildly at the ravenous beasts; instantly the whole circle quivered, a collective snarl erupting as the she‑wolf slipped along the snow, coming close enough to stare at him with hungry longing. He set to work to carry out a new idea that had come to him. He extended the fire into a large circle. Inside this circle he crouched, his sleeping outfit under him as a protection against the melting snow. After he vanished into the blaze, the whole pack curiously gathered at its rim to see what had become of him. They had been kept out of the fire until now, and are now cooled in a tight circle, moving like a pack of dogs—blink, yawn, and stretch their lean bodies in the new, soothing warmth. Then the she-wolf sat down, pointed her nose at a star, and began to howl. One by one the wolves joined her, till the whole pack, on haunches, with noses pointed skyward, was howling its hunger cry. Dawn came, and daylight. The fire was burning low. The fuel had run out, and there was need to get more. The man attempted to step out of his circle of flame, but the wolves surged to meet him. Burning brands made them spring aside, but they no longer sprang back. In vain he strove to drive them back. Surrendering, he stumbled into the circle of fire—just as a wolf leapt to bite at him, missed, and landed squarely in the coals on all four paws. It cried out with terror, at the same time snarling, and scrambled back to cool its paws in the snow. The man sat down on his blankets in a crouching position. His body leaned forward from the hips. His shoulders, relaxed and drooping, and his head on his knees advertised that he had given up the struggle. Now and again he raised his head to note the dying down of the fire. The circle of flame and coals was breaking into segments with openings in between. These openings grew in size, the segments diminished. " I guess you can come an' get me any time," he mumbled. " Anyway, I'm goin' to sleep. " Once he awakened, and in an opening in the circle, directly in front of him, he saw the she-wolf gazing at him. Again he awakened, a little later, though it seemed hours to him. A mysterious change had taken place—so mysterious a change that he was shocked wider awake. Something had happened. He could not understand at first. Then he discovered it. The wolves were gone. Remained only the trampled snow to show how closely they had pressed him. Sleep swelled, clinging to him again as his head sank toward his knees, until a sudden jerk jolted him awake. There were cries of men, and churn of sleds, the creaking of harnesses, and the eager whimpering of straining dogs. Four sleds pulled in from the river bed to the camp among the trees. Half a dozen men were about the man who crouched in the centre of the dying fire. They were shaking and prodding him into consciousness. He looked at them like a drunken man and maundered in strange, sleepy speech. " Red she-wolf. . . Come in with the dogs at feedin' time. . . . First she ate the dog-food. . . . Then she ate the dogs. . . . An' after that she ate Bill. . . . " " Where's Lord Alfred?" one of the men bellowed in his ear, shaking him roughly. He shook his head slowly. " No, she didn't eat him. . . . He's roostin' in a tree at the last camp. " " Dead?" the man shouted. " An' in a box," Henry answered. He jerked his shoulder petulantly away from the grip of his questioner. " Say, you lemme alone. . . . I'm jes' plump tuckered out. . . . Goo' night, everybody. " His eyes fluttered and went shut. His chin fell forward on his chest. And even as they eased him down upon the blankets his snores were rising on the frosty air. But there was another sound. From a far‑off, far‑faint point in the wilderness, the cry of the hungry wolf‑pack echoed as it chased something other than the man it had just missed. The she‑wolf was the first to hear the men's voices and the sled‑dogs' whining, and she was also the first to flee the cornered man in the dying flame. The pack was reluctant to abandon the kill it had pursued, lingering for several minutes to listen for sound before finally sprinting along the trail left by the she‑wolf. Running at the forefront of the pack was a large grey wolf—one of its several leaders. It was he who directed the pack's course on the heels of the she-wolf. He was the one who snarled warningly at the younger pack members—or bit them with his fangs whenever they dared to overtake him. And it was he who increased the pace when he sighted the she-wolf, now trotting slowly across the snow. She dropped in alongside by him, as though it were her appointed position, and took the pace of the pack. He did not snarl at her or show his teeth whenever one of her leaps put her ahead of him. On the contrary, he appeared kindly toward her—so much so that her reaction showed she disliked it, because he was prone to run close, and whenever he did, she snarled and bared her teeth. Nor was she above slashing his shoulder sharply on occasion. At such times he betrayed no anger. He merely sprang to the side and ran stiffly ahead for several awkward leaps, in carriage and conduct resembling an abashed country swain. This was his one trouble in the running of the pack; but she had other troubles. On her other side ran a gaunt old wolf, grizzled and marked with the scars of many battles. He ran always on her right side. The fact that he had but one eye, and that the left eye, might account for this. He, also, was addicted to crowding her, to veering toward her till his scarred muzzle touched her body, or shoulder, or neck. Like her run‑mate on the left, she repelled their advances with a snarl; but when both pressed on at once she was jostled, snapping quickly to either side to drive the two suitors apart, all while keeping her pace with the pack and leaving her footprint straight ahead. At such times her running mates flashed their teeth and growled threateningly across at each other. They might have fought, but even wooing and its rivalry waited upon the more pressing hunger-need of the pack. After each repulse, as the old wolf snapped away from the sharp‑toothed object he coveted, he pressed his shoulder against a three‑year‑old wolf that darted to his blind right side. Having reached his full size, the youthful wolf displayed vigor and spirit beyond the norm, a remarkable feat in light of the pack’s weak, famished condition. Nevertheless, he ran with his head even with the shoulder of his one-eyed elder. | "—Burns Heyward and his female companions witnessed this mysterious movement with secret uneasiness; for, though the conduct of the white man had hitherto been above reproach, his rude equipments, blunt address, and strong antipathies, together with the character of his silent associates, were all causes for exciting distrust in minds that had been so recently alarmed by Indian treachery. The stranger alone disregarded the passing incidents. He sat on a protruding rock outcrop, and aside from the frequent, heavy sighs that revealed his inner turmoil, no other signs of consciousness were evident. Silenced voices followed, as if men whispered to one another in the earth’s depths, until a sudden flash of light struck the dim ones, unveiling the coveted secret of the place. At the far end of the narrow, deep rock cavern—its length seemingly stretched by perspective and light—the scout sat, clutching a glowing bundle of pine. The fierce glare of the fire swept over his sturdy, weather‑beaten visage and forest garb, imbuing him with a romantic wildness that, in ordinary daylight, would have showcased a man whose unusual dress, iron‑hard frame, and a distinctive blend of sharp mind and unpretentious simplicity seemed to momentarily eclipse his muscular features. Uncas stood a short distance ahead, his entire figure thrust dramatically into view. The travelers watched, nervous and expectant, the upright, supple silhouette of the young Mohican, whose poise was graceful and unrestrained, echoing the natural rhythm of the world. Although his figure was more than usually obscured by a green, fringed hunting shirt like that of a white man, the dark, penetrating, fearless eyes remained fully exposed—be they terrifying or calm; the bold, proud outline of his high, haughty features was pure red, and the dignified, receding forehead, together with the finest proportions of a noble head, lay bare beneath the generous scalp tuft. For the first time, Duncan and his companions could behold the distinct lineaments of their Indian attendants, and every member of the party felt a weight lift from their doubts as the proud, resolute—and yet wild—expression of the young warrior demanded their notice. They sensed the creature might be somewhat lost in a valley of ignorance, yet it was not one who would gladly surrender its natural talents to treachery. Alice, unguarded and sincere, stared at his unrestrained grace and proud bearing as if she were admiring a precious relic wrought by a Greek sculptor, given life by divine hand; and though Major Heyward was accustomed to the flawless forms of uncorrupted natives, he openly expressed his admiration for this unblemished specimen of noble human proportions. Alice whispered in reply, “With such a fearless and generous‑looking youth as my sentinel, I could sleep in peace.” Surely, Duncan, ⊗ cruel murders, ⊗ terrific scenes of torture, of which we read and hear so much, are never acted in the presence of such as he! He answered that this was indeed a rare and brilliant example of the natural qualities in which these peculiar people are reputed to excel. I agree with you, Alice, that this fierce demeanor and stare are meant to intimidate rather than to deceive; let us not deceive ourselves by expecting any other exhibition of virtue than the plain honesty of the savage. Bright examples of great qualities are rare among Christians, just as they are scarce among Indians; yet neither group is incapable of producing them, honoring our shared nature. Let us hope that this Mohican lives up to our expectations, proving that his appearance reveals him to be a brave and steadfast friend. Now Major Heyward speaks the way he ought, Cora remarked; anyone who looks upon this natural creature recalls the hue of his skin. A brief, somewhat uneasy silence followed this remark, until the scout loudly beckoned them to come in. “The flame is getting too bright,” he warned, “and could bring the Mingoes to our downfall.” Uncas, drop the blanket, and show the knaves its dark side. This is no meal a Royal American major would expect, yet I’ve seen stout detachments in the corps happily eating their venison raw, no taste required. Here, as you can see, we have a plentiful supply of salt and can quickly make a broil. There are fresh sassafras boughs ready for the ladies to sit on; though they may not rival the splendor of their hog‑guinea chairs, they emit a sweeter fragrance than the skin of any hog, whether from a guinea pig or any other animal. Come, friend—do not grieve for the colt; it was a harmless creature that endured little hardship. Its death will save the creature many a sore back and weary foot! " Uncas followed the others’ instructions, and when Hawkeye fell silent, the roar of the cataract echoed like distant thunder. Are we quite safe in this cavern?" demanded Heyward. " Is there no danger of surprise? A single armed man, at its entrance, would hold us at his mercy. " From the darkness behind the scout, a spectral figure emerged, seized a blazing brand, and thrust it toward the farthest point of their refuge. Alice let out a faint shriek, and even Cora sprang to her feet as the appalling figure slipped into the light; but a single word from Heyward soothed them, his assurance that it was only their attendant, Chingachgook, who—lifting another blanket—had discovered the cavern split into two exits. Then, clutching the brand, he crossed a deep, narrow chasm in the rocks that ran perpendicular to the passage they were in; unlike that one, the new chasm opened into the sky, and he entered another cave that matched the first in every essential detail. "We, the seasoned scouts like Chingachgook and I, are rarely trapped in a single‑bore hollow," Hawkeye laughed. "That’s the cleverness of this spot—the black limestone here is famously soft, so it gives no hard cushion where brush and pine are scarce. The falls were once just a few yards below us, and I’d dare say at its height it was as steady and handsome a ribbon of water as any along the Hudson." But old age is a severe blow to one’s appearance, whereas these sweet young ladies have yet to learn it. The place is sadly changed! These rocks are full of cracks, and in some places they are softer than others; the water has carved deep hollows for itself, causing it to fall back some hundred feet, breaking here and wearing there until the falls lose both shape and consistency. In what part of them are we?" asked Heyward. " We are now near the place Providence first set them—but it seems they were too rebellious to remain there. The rock was softer on both sides, so they chiseled out two small alcoves for us, leaving the center of the riverbed bare and dry. We are then on an island! " " Ay! With falls flanking us on both sides and the river flowing above and below. If daylight were available, it would be worth the trouble to climb to the summit of this rock and behold the water’s caprice. The river obeys no single rule: it leaps, tumbles, skips, and shoots; at one point it runs white as snow, at another green as grass; nearby it plunges into deep hollows that rumble and crush the earth, and elsewhere it ripples and sings like a brook, carving whirlpools and gullies into the old stone as if it were soft clay. The whole design of the river seems disconcerted. First it runs smoothly, as if meaning to go down the descent as things were ordered; then it angles about and faces the shores; nor are there places wanting where it looks backward, as if unwilling to leave the wilderness, to mingle with the salt. | 0.2 | Adventure stories | Chaney, John Griffith | Cooper, Fenimore | 910 | 940 | Chaney, John Griffith_[White Fang]_1500_7_0.2 | Cooper, Fenimore_[The Last of the Mohicans; A narrative of 1757]_1500_13_0.7 |
I want you to get off this car, and if you don't get off bag and baggage inside of five minutes, I shall make it my personal business to throw you off," announced the showman with rising color. He had restrained himself for as long as possible. The humiliations the Circus Boys endured ever since they joined the carriage deeply stirred the showman. The clock now reads a quarter to twelve. Exactly at noon, you and your luggage will be positioned outside the car. I now hold the position of authority. The showman reclined and watched his former car manager hastily cram his belongings into a suitcase. Snowden snarled, “I’ll take my revenge for this,” as he shuffled out of the car, slamming the door behind him. And a good riddance!" muttered the showman rising. " This will be a good opportunity for me to review the accounts and determine the car’s current condition. Mr. Sparling pressed an electric button, and the porter, Henry, answered the call. Has Mr. Forrest come back yet? No, sir." " Can you confirm whether Mr. Conley is out there? Yes, sir." " Send him in. " Billy stepped into the stateroom, a wide grin lighting up his face. Sit down, Billy. Well, our friend has gone. I guess you're sorry? "On the contrary," Billy replied without hesitation, "I’m delighted to the brink of death." We can finally get down to real work. We'll demonstrate what we are capable of! Just to confirm, Mr. Sparling, are you going to follow through on the plan you mentioned this morning? Yes. You'll have another chance next year. Thank you, sir." " Now, we'll review the books together. I’ll need to ask you a few questions as we move forward. First, tell the porter to let Phil and Teddy in when they return, but keep their identities a secret. Billy stepped out and relayed the showman’s orders to the porter. By chance, no other crew members were aboard the car at that moment. They had no idea the changes were already underway. Upon Billy’s return, he and his chief dove into a bustling few minutes of combing through books and reports. The chief found many things that displeased him, and his anger swelled at some of them. I believe I successfully dealt with Snowden. "I should have gotten rid of him before he joined me in the spring." Billy agreed, saying, “He was a bad one.” I can work with almost anyone, but I’ve never managed to work with someone like him. The boys are all right. He would have avoided any trouble if he had treated them like human beings. They both endured more than I could have tolerated. I want you to know that the boy, Teddy—nicknamed Spotted Horse by the crew—handed it over to the Boss. Had Snowden lingered longer, I would have bet that Teddy would have driven him off the car. Did I mention how Phil positioned the silo? No; what about it?" Billy launched a spirited retelling of Phil’s clever stunt, with Mr. Sparling nodding as the story unfolded. I am not surprised. He inherently possesses the charisma of a showman. Soon you’ll hear great things about Phil Forrest, and his friend Teddy won’t be far behind—once he settles in. Conley added, “I suppose they’re on their way now.” Someone just climbed onto the rear platform. I'll step out and see. Billy welcomed the Circus Boys as they entered. He said, “You are required to report to the stateroom.” More trouble?" laughed Phil. Billy nodded. " Perhaps, perhaps not, but I believe the trouble has ended. Phil and Teddy hurried toward the stateroom. They paused at the door, scarcely able to believe what they saw. Mr. Sparling sat there, greeting them with a warm smile. Mr. Sparling! _" Phil cried out as he dashed in, Teddy close at his heels. "I wanted to surprise you," the showman laughed, throwing an arm around each boy. Phil cried, “I’m so thrilled to see you,” and embraced his employer with delight. It warms my heart to see you both again. Since you left, the Sparling organization hasn't been quite the same. Since you left, we haven’t had any excitement, Teddy. How's the donkey?" " He kicks anything that comes near him out of sight. The showman chuckled, saying, “He’s not been to the ring since you left.” I wish I could return to that place. I’m not fond of this game, even for a short while. "So you're saying you don't like the work?" Well, no, not exactly that. The work feels acceptable, yet— persisted Mr. Sparling. " Never mind, Teddy," Phil interjected. I won’t share any tales, you know. I'm telling no tales. I said I didn’t like it, and that’s the truth. Could I accompany you back, Mr. Sparling? If you wish, feel free to leave Phil. Will Phil stay? Certainly. " Teddy exhaled a long sigh. Then I think I’ll stay as well, but I anticipate trouble on this car before the season ends, sir. Trouble?" " Yes, sir." " What kind of trouble?" " One of these fine days, I'm going to beat a man right up to the brink of death. I am astonished, Teddy. Who is the man?" " Oh, no matter. Teddy replied in a buoyant tone, “There’s a particular crew aboard this car.” I sincerely hope you won’t do anything like that, for conditions have changed somewhat on Number Three. Act properly, Teddy, and absorb everything you can. "You could end up as a car manager someday, and all this experience will prove useful to you," said Mr. Sparling. “I'm not getting the kind of experience that will be useful to me,” retorted Teddy. Mr. Sparling and Phil burst into hearty laughter, and Teddy’s expression turned noticeably sorrowful. Have you seen Mr. Snowden?" The showman asked Phil, his gaze keenly fixed on his employer. Something about the situation stirred a flicker of half‑formed thought in the lad. Yes, I've seen him," the showman replied, his face instantly turning grave. Where is he?" " He has gone away. I’ll go ahead and tell you, boys. Mr. Snowden is no longer the manager of this car. He is no longer involved with the Sparling Show in any capacity—and will never be again. The Circus Boys stared at him, barely able to fathom what they’d just heard. Not—not on this car any more?" questioned Phil. " Never again, young man. " " Hip, hip, hooray!" Teddy Tucker shouted at the top of his lungs, hurling his hat onto the car’s roof and launching a miniature war‑dance around the stateroom; to save the furniture, Phil grabbed his friend, threw him onto the divan, and sat on top of him. Now, Mr. Sparling, after getting rid of Teddy, I’d love to hear all the details, laughed Phil. He is the same old Teddy. I can imagine how pleasant Snowden must have felt working alongside Tucker on the same car. There is little more to say. I have long been disappointed by Snowden. I had almost decided to remove him before you joined the car. I, however, wished to send you boys on, fully aware that you would soon discover whether I had misjudged that man. Moreover, I had additional reasons for sending you in advance. Well, sir, now that he's gone, I’m truly glad, though I sincerely regret Mr. Snowden. He was well‑versed in the work; I wish I could match his familiarity, yet I would never trade my temperament for something like that—even for a million dollars. “I would,” piped Teddy, on being allowed by Phil to stand. I’d gladly turn into a ferocious lion for a million dollars. Have you decided what to do with Car Three now? inquired Phil. " You know I'm interested now that I've committed myself to it. Yes; I certainly have decided. Certainly, the car will continue running just as before. I understand that, but have you decided whom you will appoint as the agent—the manager of the car? I have. " " I presume we’ll need to bring on a man before we can move on. Yes." " So we will have to stay here for at least a day. Well, we can busy ourselves. | You are about to present an infant to your lord, who is utterly indifferent about the matter; it will be a girl, and I demand her in marriage on the day she will be twenty years old: consent to be my mother, and I will avenge your injuries upon your husband, and load you with honours and riches; refuse, and I will tear you in pieces this moment, and furnish my supper table with your carcass." Margaret, terrified like never before and willing to surrender her daughter, sons, and husband in exchange for freedom, readily agreed to the Dwarf’s terms; the now‑polite dwarf embraced her mother and pledged his devotion. He told her he would give her notice a few months before claiming his wife, then carefully set her on her palfrey; mounting behind, he spurred the horse, which rushed like the wind to the forest’s entrance, where, after embracing his beloved mother, he dismounted and vanished. Margaret, freed from the odious company of the Yellow Dwarf, began to reflect with no very pleasant feelings upon her present adventure and future prospects. She was indeed safe, having escaped the orange‑coloured clutches of her devoted, beloved son; though still vexed by the dreadful promise she had been forced to make, she could not help congratulating herself with genuine pride, and, like all who had just survived a present danger, she began to minimize the evils that lay ahead. The farther she rode from the Orange Tree, the calmer her mind grew; recalling a few insights from “Time, the Comforter,” she reflected that, before the twenty‑year mark, the little yellow devil might die (and she could not help but note his miserable ill‑state), or he might forget his pledge, or be vanquished by a stronger black, pea‑green, or true‑blue adversary; or she could secure her daughter in a strong fortress or convent, or marry her to a prince capable of protecting her—so Margaret thought, “Enough to endure a day of such misery,” and, satisfied by these reassuring thoughts, she rode on with great confidence, arriving comfortably at the gates of Wartzburg. These yellow cowslip cheeks, And eyes as green as leeks. " Twenty years is a long time to look ahead, yet a brief stretch to reflect on the past, so the widowed princess pondered this as she sat beside her beloved daughter in the palace of Erfurt, nineteen years and several months after her forest adventure, listening with earnest, tender attention to her sons’ warlike plans to wrest their dominions from the iron grip of Albert the One‑eyed and Philip of Nassau. They were compelled to confront their enemies, and because the Margrave of Misnia intended to fight in person, he would inevitably strip his beloved daughter of the protective shield that had hitherto kept her safe from the Yellow Dwarf. He had only six months left to claim his bride; since he still hadn’t made the appearance he’d promised, she suspected he might have forgotten, and she quietly chose not to protest, keeping the matter from her children. During the bustle of war preparations, a knight dressed in splendid finery arrived at the palace and demanded an introduction to Princess Margaret; as soon as she saw him, she recognized the livery on his arms as that of her beloved son‑in‑law, the Dwarf of the Orange Tree. He introduced himself as the knight of the Orange King, promising to lay a heap of gold at Princess Margaret’s feet and to escort her daughter away as the bride of his master. Concealment was no longer possible, so sending for her children, she informed them of her forest adventure, and its unfortunate result. Poor Brunilda collapsed; her brothers, as raucously as Queen Elizabeth once had, fiercely berated the knight‑ambassador for daring to see their sister as a suitable aide for the low‑lived, dirty sorcerer his master; meanwhile, Margaret—who before their arrival had been terrified to death by his presence—now, feeling protected, let her tongue wag at an unconscionable rate against the poor ambassador. She told him she intended to cut off his ears simply for delivering such a message; she accused his master of being a conceited monster, and warned that, even if he spent all his gold and silver on a fine castle, trimmed his beard, and lived like a gentleman, he would still not be interested in her daughter’s company—yet this seemed utterly impossible, and she believed even the lowest scullion would fail to secure it. "Madam," the knight said, his voice grave and unappealing to the princess, "I wish you understand that I came here not to argue with you or to listen to a catalogue of my master's virtues, but to tell you that he will not abandon his Orange Tree or his beard for any princess in the world, including fair Brunilda." If you deem it improper to keep your promise, he will still find a way to oblige you: he does not need human aid to secure his betrothed bride, yet his gallantry and good nature will prevent him from forcing the will of the fair princess, should he choose to relinquish his determination with honour. He is fully aware of your present hostility toward his marriage proposal and has asked me to convey that if the princess rejects his vows—a prospect he can scarcely accept—she will be released only on the condition that she finds a champion who can defeat me and, after that, my invincible master in single combat on horseback or on foot, with lance or sword, at the Highness’s discretion, all before the six‑month deadline. Are these terms acceptable? "‘You may,’ the margrave answered, judging the conditions manageable and preferring compliance to refusal; he was unaware of the enemy’s strength that his mother’s promise was meant to counter, and he recalled that he would likely have to leave his beloved sister unprotected during his campaigns abroad. The arrangements were, therefore, soon made, and the yellow champion was satisfied. And now a splendid scene opened to view in the territories of Frederic with the bitten cheek. No sooner had the bells struck the prime hour each day than the trumpet boomed, proclaiming the yellow knight’s challenge and the Margrave of Misnia’s promise that the victorious champion of fair Brunilda would earn her hand as reward. Every day a knight chronicled the adventure, and every day Margaret entered the fray—her lovely daughter beside her—who, turning a fan of peacock feathers, looked so charming and moved herself with the same dainty grace Esther once possessed when she approached Ahasuerus. However, unlike the beautiful daughter of the scorners of pork, she could not secure her petition; day after day she was forced to watch her hopes shattered as the yellow Haman repeatedly triumphed over her own black, brown, or party‑colored champions—each knight falling under his weighty arm and having to surrender their claims to fair Brunilda, much to their sorrow. Already had the counts of Wartzburg, Oettingen, Henneberg, Hanau, and Conrad of Reida, been compelled to acknowledge the superiority of his powerful arm, when the arrival of the handsome knight of Tecklenburgh, who just came in time to hear a week's rest proclaimed, in order to gain time for the approach of other knights from the most distant parts of Germany to the aid of the endangered princess, revived the hopes of Brunilda. | 0.3 | Adventure stories | Darlington, Edgar B. P. | Dods, Mary Diana | 2478 | 66106 | Darlington, Edgar B. P._[The Circus Boys on the Plains; Or, The Young Advance Agents Ahead of the Show]_1500_14_0.7 | Dods, Mary Diana_[Tales of the Wild and the Wonderful [1867]]_1500_10_0.7 |
'Of course,' thought he, as he looked dreamily upward to the concentric rings and wreaths of smoke, the produce of his mild havannah, 'we shall meet as mere friends, old acquaintances, and that sort of thing. Doubtless she has forgotten me, and all that I was to her once. Here, amid the gaieties of three successive seasons since _those days_, she must have found many greater attractions than poor Trevor Chute—this fellow Desmond among them—while the poor devil in the Line was broiling up country, with no solace save the memory—if solace it was—of the days that were no more!' Sir Carnaby Collingwood was by nature proud, cold, and selfish. He had married for money, as his father had done before him; and though he seemed to have a pleasure in revenging himself, as some one has phrased it, by quenching the love and sunshine in the life of others, because of the lack of both in his own, Trevor Chute felt that he could scarcely with justice be upbraided for breaking off the marriage of a girl having such expectations as Clare with an almost penniless subaltern officer. With a cruelty that was somewhat deliberate, she fairly jilted Vane and married Jack Beverley, undeniably a handsomer and more showy man, whose settlements were unexceptionable, and came quite up to all that Sir Carnaby could wish. Yet Beverley did not gain much by the transaction. Ida fell into a chronic state of health so delicate that decline was threatened; the family physicians interposed, and nearly three years passed away without her being able to join her husband in India, where he was then serving with Trevor Chute's regiment, and where he met his death by a terrible accident. Jerry Vane felt deeply and bitterly the loss of the girl he had loved so well; and he would rather that she had gone to India and passed out of his circle, as he was constantly fated to hear of her, and not unfrequently to meet her; for Jerry's heart did not break, and sooth to say, between balls and dinners, croquet and Badminton parties, cricket matches, whist and chess tournaments, rinking, and so forth, his time was pretty well parcelled out, when in town or anywhere else. Trevor Chute and Beverley had been warm friends when with the regiment. Loving Clare still, and treasuring all the tender past, he felt that her brother-in-law was a species of link between them, through whom he could always hear of her welfare, while he half hoped that she might wish to hear of his, and yet be led to take an interest in him. With all this mutual regard, Chute's dearest friend of the two was not the dead man, but Jerry Vane; yet there had been a great community of sentiment between them. This was born of the affection they fostered for the two sisters, and sooth to say, Beverley, while in India, loved his absent wife with a passion that bordered on something beyond either enthusiasm or romance. It became eventually spiritualised and refined, this love for the distant and the ailing, beyond what he could describe or altogether conceive, though times there were when in moments of confidence, over their cheroots and brandy pawnee, he would gravely observe to Trevor Chute that so strong, and yet so tender, was the tie between him and Ida, that, though so many thousand miles apart, they were _en rapport_ with each other, and thus that each thought, or talked, and dreamt of the absent at the same moment. Be all this as it may, a time was to come when Trevor was to recall these strange confidences and apparently wild assertions with something more than terror and anxiety, though now he only thought of the death-bed of his friend in India, the details of all that befell him, and the messages and mementoes which Jack Beverley had charged him to deliver to Ida on his return to England. They had been stationed together, on detachment, at the cantonment of Landour, which is situated on one of the outer ridges of the Himalaya range, immediately above the Valley of the Deyrah Dhoon, where they shared the same bungalow. The dulness of the remote station at which the two friends found themselves became varied by the sudden advent of a tiger in an adjacent jungle: a regular man-eater, a brute of unexampled strength and ferocity, which had carried off more than one unfortunate native from the pettah or village adjoining the cantonment; thus, as a point of honour, it behoved Trevor Chute and Beverley, as European officers and English sportsmen, to undertake its destruction. Indeed, it was to them, and to their skill, prowess, and hardihood, the poor natives looked entirely for security and revenge. 'I have sworn to kill that tiger, and send its skin as a trophy to Ida,' said Beverley, when the subject was first mooted at tiffin one day. 'She shall have it for the carriage in the Park, and to show to her friends! About two in the morning, the comrades, accompanied by four native servants, took their guns, and set forth on this perilous errand, and leaving the secluded cantonment, proceeded some three or four miles in the direction of the jungle in which the tiger was generally seen. As he sat in reverie now, how well Trevor Chute could remember every petty detail of that eventful day; for an eventful one it proved, in more ways than one. The aspect of Jack Beverley, his dark and handsome face, set off by his white linen puggaree, his lips clearly cut, firm and proud, his eyes keen as those of a falcon, filled with the fire of youth and courage, and his splendid figure, with every muscle developed by the alternate use of the saddle, the oar, and the bat, his chest broad, and his head nobly set on his shoulders, and looking what he was, the model of an Englishman. 'Now, Chute, old fellow, you will let me have the first shot, for Ida's sake, when this brute breaks cover,' said he, laughing, as he handed him a case worked by her hands, adding, 'Have a cheroot—they are only chinsurrahs, but I'll send a big box to your crib; they will be too dry for me ere I get through them all, and we may find them serviceable this evening.' Poor Beverley could little foresee the evening that was before him! Though late in the season, the day and the scenery were beautiful. Leaving behind a noble thicket, where the fragrant and golden bells of the baubul trees mingled with the branches of other enormous shrubs, from the stems and branches of which the baboon ropes and other verdant trailers hung in fantastic festoons, the friends began to step short, look anxiously around them while advancing, a few paces apart, with their rifles at half-cock; for now they were close upon that spot called the jungle, and the morning sun shone brightly. After six hours' examination of the jungle the friends saw nothing, and the increasing heat of the morning made them descend thankfully into a rugged nullah that intersected the thicket, to procure some of the cool water that trickled and filtered under the broad leaves and gnarled roots far down below. Just as Chute was stooping to drink, Beverley said, in a low but excited voice: 'Look out, Trevor; by Jingo, there's the tiger!' Chute did so, and his heart gave a kind of leap within him when, sure enough, he saw the dreaded tiger, one of vast strength and bulk, passing quietly along the bottom of the nullah, but with something stealthy in its action, with tail and head depressed. In silence Beverley put his rifle to his shoulder, just as the dreadful animal began to climb the bank towards him, and at that moment a ray of sunlight glittering on the barrel caused the tiger to pause and look up, when about twenty yards off. It saw him: the fierce round face seemed to become convulsed with rage; the little ears fell back close; the carbuncular eyes filled with a dreadful glare; from its red mouth a kind of steam was emitted, while its teeth and whiskers seemed to bristle as it drew crouchingly back on its haunches prior to making a tremendous spring. Ready to take it in flank, Chute here cocked his rifle, when Beverley, not without some misgivings, sighted it near the shoulder, and fired both barrels in quick succession. Then a triumphant shout escaped him, for on the smoke clearing away he saw the tiger lying motionless on its side, with its back towards him. 'You should have reserved the fire of one barrel,' said Chute, 'for the animal may not be dead, and it may charge us yet. | " "Fancy," said he, laughing, "I found my wife yesterday on her knees before this picture, as if in a chapel. She was paying her devotions. How I did laugh. " Madame Walter replied in a firm voice—a voice thrilling with secret exultation: "It is that Christ who will save my soul. He gives me strength and courage every time I look at Him." And pausing in front of the Divinity standing amidst the waters, she murmured: "How handsome he is. How afraid of Him those men are, and yet how they love Him. Look at His head, His eyes—how simple yet how supernatural at the same time. " Susan exclaimed, "But He resembles you, Pretty-boy. I am sure He resembles you. If you had a beard, or if He was clean shaven, you would be both alike. Oh, but it is striking! " She insisted on his standing beside the picture, and they all, indeed, recognized that the two faces resembled one another. Everyone was astonished. Walter thought it very singular. Madeleine, smiling, declared that Jesus had a more manly air. Madame Walter stood motionless, gazing fixedly at the face of her lover beside the face of Christ, and had become as white as her hair. XVI During the remainder of the winter the Du Roys often visited the Walters. George even dined there by himself continually, Madeleine saying she was tired, and preferring to remain at home. He had adopted Friday as a fixed day, and Madame Walter never invited anyone that evening; it belonged to Pretty-boy, to him alone. After dinner they played cards, and fed the goldfish, amusing themselves like a family circle. Several times behind a door or a clump of shrubs in the conservatory, Madame Walter had suddenly clasped George in her arms, and pressing him with all her strength to her breast, had whispered in his ear, "I love you, I love you till it is killing me." But he had always coldly repulsed her, replying, in a dry tone: "If you begin that business once again, I shall not come here any more. " Towards the end of March the marriage of the two sisters was all at once spoken about. Rose, it was said, was to marry the Count de Latour-Yvelin, and Susan the Marquis de Cazolles. These two gentlemen had become familiars of the household, those familiars to whom special favors and marked privileges are granted. George and Susan continued to live in a species of free and fraternal intimacy, romping for hours, making fun of everyone, and seeming greatly to enjoy one another's company. They had never spoken again of the possible marriage of the young girl, nor of the suitors who offered themselves. The governor had brought George home to lunch one morning. Madame Walter was called away immediately after the repast to see one of the tradesmen, and the young fellow said to Susan: "Let us go and feed the goldfish. " They each took a piece of crumb of bread from the table and went into the conservatory. All along the marble brim cushions were left lying on the ground, so that one could kneel down round the basin, so as to be nearer the fish. They each took one of these, side by side, and bending over the water, began to throw in pellets of bread rolled between the fingers. The fish, as soon as they caught sight of them, flocked round, wagging their tails, waving their fins, rolling their great projecting eyes, turning round, diving to catch the bait as it sank, and coming up at once to ask for more. They had a funny action of the mouth, sudden and rapid movements, a strangely monstrous appearance, and against the sand of the bottom stood out a bright red, passing like flames through the transparent water, or showing, as soon as they halted, the blue edging to their scales. George and Susan saw their own faces looking up in the water, and smiled at them. All at once he said in a low voice: "It is not kind to hide things from me, Susan. " "What do you mean, Pretty-boy?" asked she. "Don't you remember, what you promised me here on the evening of the fete?" "No." "To consult me every time your hand was asked for. " "Well?" "Well, it has been asked for. " "By whom?" "You know very well. " "No. I swear to you. " "Yes, you do. That great fop, the Marquis de Cazolles. " "He is not a fop, in the first place. " "It may be so, but he is stupid, ruined by play, and worn out by dissipation. It is really a nice match for you, so pretty, so fresh, and so intelligent. " She inquired, smiling: "What have you against him?" "I, nothing. " "Yes, you have. He is not all that you say. " "Nonsense. He is a fool and an intriguer. " She turned round somewhat, leaving off looking into the water, and said: "Come, what is the matter with you?" He said, as though a secret was being wrenched from the bottom of his heart: "I—I—am jealous of him. " She was slightly astonished, saying: "You?" "Yes, I." "Why so?" "Because I am in love with you, and you know it very well, you naughty girl. " She said, in a severe tone: "You are mad, Pretty-boy. " He replied; "I know very well that I am mad. Ought I to have admitted that—I, a married man, to you, a young girl? I am more than mad, I am guilty. I have no possible hope, and the thought of that drives me out of my senses. And when I hear it said that you are going to be married, I have fits of rage enough to kill someone. You must forgive me this, Susan. " He was silent. The whole of the fish, to whom bread was no longer being thrown, were motionless, drawn up in line like English soldiers, and looking at the bent heads of those two who were no longer troubling themselves about them. The young girl murmured, half sadly, half gayly: "It is a pity that you are married. What would you? Nothing can be done. It is settled. " He turned suddenly towards her, and said right in her face: "If I were free, would you marry me?" She replied, in a tone of sincerity: "Yes, Pretty-boy, I would marry you, for you please me far better than any of the others. " He rose, and stammered: "Thanks, thanks; do not say 'yes' to anyone yet, I beg of you; wait a little longer, I entreat you. Will you promise me this much?" She murmured, somewhat uneasily, and without understanding what he wanted: "Yes, I promise you. " Du Roy threw the lump of bread he still held in his hand into the water, and fled as though he had lost his head, without wishing her good-bye. All the fish rushed eagerly at this lump of crumb, which floated, not having been kneaded in the fingers, and nibbled it with greedy mouths. They dragged it away to the other end of the basin, and forming a moving cluster, a kind of animated and twisting flower, a live flower fallen into the water head downwards. Susan, surprised and uneasy, got up and returned slowly to the dining-room. The journalist had left. He came home very calm, and as Madeleine was writing letters, said to her: "Are you going to dine at the Walters' on Friday? I am going. " She hesitated, and replied: "No. I do not feel very well. I would rather stay at home. " He remarked: "Just as you like. " Then he took his hat and went out again at once. For some time past he had been keeping watch over her, following her about, knowing all her movements. The hour he had been awaiting was at length at hand. He had not been deceived by the tone in which she had said: "I would rather stay at home. " He was very amiable towards her during the next few days. He even appeared lively, which was not usual, and she said: "You are growing quite nice again. " He dressed early on the Friday, in order to make some calls before going to the governor's, he said. He started just before six, after kissing his wife, and went and took a cab at the Place Notre Dame de Lorette. He said to the driver: "Pull up in front of No. 17, Rue Fontaine, and stay there till I tell you to go on again. Then drive to the Cock Pheasant restaurant in the Rue Lafayette. " The cab started at a slow trot, and Du Roy drew down the blinds. As soon as he was opposite the door he did not take his eyes off it. After waiting ten minutes he saw Madeleine come out and go in the direction of the outer boulevards. | 0 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Grant, James | De Maupassant, Guy | 68790 | 33928 | Grant, James_[A haunted life]_1500_3 | De Maupassant, Guy_[Bel Ami (A Ladies' Man) The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Vol. 6]_1500_66 |
Only once could a man defy the deathless guardians of the Ancient's tomb-city deep in Ganymede's hell-forest and expect to live. Yet Ed Garth had to return, compelled to lead men to certain doom—to keep a promise to a girl he would never see again. Icy rain splashed across Ed Garth’s face, trickling down his torn, grime‑laden shirt. Opening his eyes demanded a Herculean effort. The fumes of native Ganymedean rotgut liquor swirled through his mind. Someone was shaking him roughly. Garth's stocky body jerked convulsively. He slammed his pulse‑waxed face into the air, twisted by terrified fury, and barked, “Ylgana!” "Vo m'trana al-khron," and then the hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, "That's it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue! Her voice quivered, tinged with doubt and a faint expression of disgust. You're sure? But how in the System did this—this happen? “Bum.” "Tramp," Garth muttered, squinting at the dull, unfocused faces hovering over the crowd. Don't mind me, sister. Beachcomber—that’s the word—soaked in drunkenness, here and now. Please leave right now so I can finish my drink. Additional water was sluiced over Garth. He shook his head in a groan, watching Tolomo— the Ganymedean trader—scowl down at him. The native’s three‑pupiled eyes flickered with fury. He hissed English, oddly accented, against his tongue. You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This assignment is yours to claim. You already owe me far too much. They arrive searching for you, insisting they need a guide. Now do what they ask and settle my bill for every bottle of credit‑drunk liquor you purchase. Sure," Garth said wearily. " Tomorrow. Not now. " Tolomo snorted. " I'll get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know the way to Chahnn. The man's voice said stubbornly, “I don’t want natives.” I desire Ed Garth. "Well, you won’t get him," Garth growled, resting his head on his arms. This place already smells foul, and you’re just making it worse. Beat it. " He didn’t notice Captain Brown slip Tolomo a folded credit‑current. The trader quickly slipped the money into his pocket, nodded, and seized Garth’s hair. The alien, bluish in hue and inhuman in form, was thrust before the Earthman. "Garth, listen up," Tolomo said, his words laced with harsh profanity. I let you walk in here and keep getting drunk all the time. Whenever you harvest enough alk roots to sell, just drop a modest fee to me. But you owe plenty. People ask me why I let a bum like you hang around in my Moonflower‑Ritz Bar—"That's a laugh," Garth muttered. An ugly, makeshift plastic shelter, warped and slick, where cockroaches scuttle between the peeling walls and the rowdy patrons drown their thirst in seedy, sour liquor. Moonflower-Ritz_, hogwash! " " Shut up," Tolomo snapped. " I let you rack up a tab here when nobody else would. Take this job and pay me, or the marshal will have you locked up. Hard labor in the swamps. Garth hurled an unprintable curse at Tolomo. Okay," he groaned. " You win, louse. It's plain as day that no Earthman can survive swampwork, even with bog‑shoes. Let go of my hair now, or I'll crush your teeth. You do it? You guide these people?" " I pledged I'd do it, didn't I? Garth clumsily reached for the bottle in front of him. A hand, slick with grimy alloy and trembling from the bitter brew, slammed a brimming glass straight into his palm. He gulped the blistering, purple drink, shuddered, and exhaled his breath. Okay," he said. " Welcome to Ganymede—the System’s most decadent haunt of vice and wonder. Its climate was the worst outside Hell, its world remained almost untouched, and it was the finest place I’d ever seen for dogs to roam. You are greeted by the Chamber of Commerce. Here's the representative. " He gestured toward a six‑legged lizard whose gargoyle‑like face scurried across the table before slipping into the shadowy corners beyond the radio‑lamp’s glow. Captain Brown said, “We could offer you fifty dollars to take us to the ruined city of Chahnn.” "And, perhaps, I could offer you ten thousand dollars to take on another small job for us." That shock was more jolting than any cold water could have been. For the first time, Garth flinched back and let his eyes fall over his companions. They were a pair—a man and a girl—whose crisp tropical outfits seemed out of place amid the grimy, seedy dive. The man was lean and bronzed, his skin looking as if all the moisture had been boiled away by scorching suns. Garth saw himself fashioned from rugged leather. His face was the most expressionless Garth had ever seen—pale, shallow eyes, a mouth like a rat‑trap, and the overall aura of a tiger simply luxuriating in ease. The girl… sudden, sickening pain surged through Garth. She looked like Moira. For a brief, jarring instant, his mind, dulled by liquor, convinced him she had returned. Still, Moira had been gone for nearly five years. Five years trapped in a living death—skidding across Ganymede, where men meet their end swiftly. Garth's ravaged face hardened. He steadied himself and fixed his gaze directly on the girl. She wasn't Moira, after all. She carried the same sleek, unblemished femininity, yet her hair burned a golden‑red instead of brown, and her eyes glimmered green rather than blue. The gentle softness of her features was undercut by a stubborn, rounded chin. Ten thousand?" Garth repeated softly. " I don't get the picture. Every native could escort you to Chahnn. The girl replied, “We’re aware of that.” We're interested in—something else. Could you use ten thousand? Yeah! "I suppose I could," Garth replied. How would you spend it? Go back to Earth? "We could use it to land you a position there." Since the Silver Plague began, there has been a chronic shortage of men. Garth’s fingers curled gently around the glass, squeezing until the clear plastic bent out of shape. He avoided eye contact with her. I'm through with Earth. If I could amass ten thousand, I’d end my own life—but, strangely, in a darkly humorous fashion. I would venture into the Black Forest. The money would get me the men and equipment I needed, but as everyone knows, no one ever walks out of the Black Forest alive. "That’s how it was," Captain Brown confirmed. Eh? You heard about that?" " We've heard stories—plenty of them. I remember when you came out of the Black Forest six years ago—fervent, feverish, and speaking a language no one could comprehend. And how have you been making trips into the Forest ever since? Just what happened? I know you organized several expeditions to rescue a man named Willard—he was with you, right? Garth again felt that cold, oppressive dread seeping into his mind—the same monstrous question that had tormented him for five years. Suddenly, he slammed a clenched fist against the tabletop. Tolomo's face flickered out from behind the curtain, only to vanish once more as Brown beckoned him back. Forget it," Garth said. " Even on Ganymede, men usually keep to themselves. Brown ran his calloused thumb along his cheek. Suit yourself. Here's the set-up, then. The matter must remain strictly confidential, or the agreement collapses. You'll know why later. Anyway, we need you to lead us into the Black Forest. Garth's laugh tore through the dim haze, sharp and bitter as burnt steel. Brown and the girl stared at him with blank, impassive eyes. What's so funny about it?" she asked, scowling. Garth sobered. " Nothing much. For five years I’ve been dripping with sweat in my desperate quest to reach the Forest, and I know its secrets better than any Ganymedean. See this?" He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a deep purplish scar that traced the length of his arm. A cannibal-plant did that. I was trapped, unable to escape the bloodsucker. Bullets and knives do not harm the bloodsucker. I was forced to stand there, helpless, for two hours until it drained every last drop of blood it wanted. After that, I managed to break free. Brown let his voice drop to a hushed murmur, “I’ve earned my own fair share of scars.” Garth glared at him. " Not in the Black Forest. The only way to breach that pest‑hole is by mounting a sizable, armed expedition. Even then, have you ever heard of Noctoli? No. Who—" "Flowers. Their pollen works funny—plenty funny. These plants thrive deep inside and can erase your memory. Not even gas-masks help. The substance seeps in through your skin. Doesn't it affect you?" the girl wanted to know. Shivering, Garth took another drink. It did—once. Later, I managed to devise an antitoxin. And I've built up immunity, anyway. But it's quite a laugh. You two, intending to venture into the Black Forest! Brown's face was emotionless. " With an expedition, well armed. I'll provide that. " " Oh. That's a bit different. Same—what do you want? Just sightseeing," the girl said. Garth grinned crookedly. " Okay. I know the stories. | But still they fought on with unabated vigour, and succeeded in preventing the enemy surrounding their encampment, and enclosing them in. Kara‑al‑Zariel always found himself at the very heart of the fiercest fighting, buoying his men simply by being there. He displayed daring feats of courage, and the long, hiltless Arab sabre he wielded was deeply stained with the blood of his foes. The diver and the waiter fought with skill and valor, whereas Mole and Figgins failed to distinguish themselves and instead chose a modest rearguard—an outcome we can attribute to their weak nerves and wooden legs. Bogey and Tinker were in their element, their African blood propelling them toward feats of bravery that hovered on the brink of barbarity. Thyra, riding at the rear, carried within her a heroic spirit that, by her own will, would have thrust her straight into the battle’s very front. Yet the chief and Jack urged her to temper her bravery, letting her stay in a safer position from which to watch the fight and fire her pistol whenever an enemy presented itself. But by degrees the Arabs ranks were broken. Their numbers were drastically diminished, and none of their efforts seemed to curb the enemy’s. So the chief resolved upon a retreat. However, before they could carry out their plan, the Turks managed to position a sizable force to block the Arabs. The chief barked, “We have to tear through them or we’ll be lost!” The war-cry of the Arabs was again raised. They surged through a gap in the living ring that enveloped them. They tore a path through the encircling knot of steel. STILL THE BATTLE RAGES. At that instant Kara‑al‑Zariel’s horse was mortally wounded and collapsed beneath his master. He fell heavily, narrowly escaping being trampled to death by the very men who surged forward behind him. But procuring another steed, he again led the van. Jack Harkaway had already lost two of his horses. Blood and smoke left him disfigured, his nerves buzzing with exhaustion and adrenaline, yet he fought on like a lion—because survival was his only purpose. Penetrating the Turkish ranks would prove to be a most daunting ordeal. Many Arabs fell dead in the desperate attempt. The moment the enemy opened a gap in their ranks, fresh men rushed to fill it. The horses barreled over the exhausted limbs of the wounded. Jack plunged into the brutal melee, with Harry close at his heels. He felled a colossal Turk, blasted another’s face with a revolver, and then sliced left and right with his sword. Seizing the passage they’d just opened, the other Englishmen surged forward, rapidly taking the trail of their leader. The waiter and the diver guided Thyra, while Mole and Figgins supported one another. Amid gunfire falling like hail from every direction and the looming threat of fatal saber blows, the retreat was made. Thyra performed another act of heroism at this juncture. As she passed, a Turkish sergeant on foot fired straight at her. Barely an inch apart, the bullet missed her brain, but she answered by firing a shot that struck the Turk’s heart, and he fell dead instantaneously. In this way the Englishmen broke through the enemy’s ranks and rejoined the chief. The rest of the Arabs trailed behind, yet they had a hard task ahead, for the enemy now far outnumbered their reduced force. However, our friends could not escape so easily. The Turks launched renewed, vigorous attempts, both to thwart their retreat and to secure their capture. Seeing the danger that surrounded them, Jack turned to Thyra and called out, “My good girl, you have given such heroic courage, but the peril is now greater than ever— you must leave this scene.” Never, dear Jack, while you are in peril, she replied firmly. He said, “You could help me more by acting this way than by staying.” Listen—there the sea lies, no farther than two miles. An English ship is anchored in the bay, and its valiant sailors will surely aid their compatriots in distress. Hurry to them now—your horse is the swiftest of all. Ride, ride for your life, dear girl. " Thyra needed no further urging. " "I will come to your aid, or I'll perish in the attempt," she cried. She tipped her steed and, within a breath, rode off at a speed akin to lightning. The Turks arrived, now led by Abdullah, as his comrade—the captain of the guard—had been grievously wounded. We must capture them!" he cried to his men. " Forward, men; death or victory. " Jack and his men realized that standing their ground would be pointless against such an overwhelming force. Flight was the only chance remaining to them. Yet they could not yield until they had struck back at their enemy. Jack aimed his pistol at the vizier’s head, but a swift, deft movement slipped him clear of the shot. Yield, Christian dogs!" he thundered. " Surrender to the power and perceived right of your captors, for escape or death is inevitable. "You don’t know us, boys of England," Jack shouted. We may be taken dead, yet as long as a breath remains, we shall never surrender to the black‑hearted Turks. The vizier replied by ordering his men to encircle the Christians, a task they fervently set to accomplish. In a sudden, deft maneuver, Jack and his friends turned and galloped away. They fled across the desert because the seaward route was still cut off. Forward!" cried Abdullah. " They must not escape us. " The pursuit went on for some time until the English, by doubling back once more, changed course and headed toward the sea. Hope surged in their hearts as they watched a sizable band of well‑armed English sailors, led by Thyra, approach. Within minutes of galloping, the welcome allies joined them, and their reinforcement enabled Jack to defy the Turks once again. The latter drew a rein and stood there for a moment, hesitating. This unexpected turn of affairs evidently disconcerted them. However, before their horses could be set again in motion, Jack and his party stormed upon the Turkish ranks, backed by their newly-arrived allies. For a fleeting instant the ferocity of their charge was utterly irresistible. They bore down all the Turks before them. The Turkish troopers recoiled as if struck by a rocket’s explosive blast. Jack rode on like a hero of old. His hair streamed in the wind as he darted across the air atop his noble Arab steed. His gaze blazed like coals, searing awe into each foe who drew near. But he soon found himself surrounded by his enemies. Abdullah, leading the rush, leapt straight at Jack. The shock forced their horses to surge forward on their haunches. At once, a half‑dozen sabers swept around Jack’s head. Abdullah lunged at him with his sword—a thrust that would have killed Jack if Harry Girdwood hadn’t caught it in his arm at that instant. Poor Harry! His devotion to his friend had cost him dear. He reeled, nearly tumbling from his saddle and about to be trampled to death, until Bogey, risking his own life, seized him and steered his horse out of the thick of the battle. Consumed by vengeance, Jack drove his sword with all his strength into Abdullah's head. The interpreter took the blow to his sword, proving it stronger than Jack's; in the clash, Jack’s weapon snapped, leaving him weaponless. He indeed seemed to be at the mercy of his ruthless adversary. Abdullah flashed a cruel grin as he lifted his sabre once more. But that smile was his last. A lance‑tip flashed over Jack’s shoulder, striking Abdullah’s chest and sending him buckling into the crush of galloping hooves. “Yah, yah! That’s the one for me, Massa Jack,” exclaimed Tinker, for he was the one who had saved Jack’s life. Jack seized Abdullah's sword and, in a desperate rush, sliced through the demoralised Turkish rearguard, reuniting his Bedouin and English friends. By this time the heat was very great. The sky was like a dome of steel. The desert sands blistered beneath the relentless sun. The dust flew in clouds, save where the blood of the wounded and dying had soaked into the arid soil. | 0.3 | Adventure stories | Hammond, Keith | Bracebridge, Samuel | 62713 | 20320 | Hammond, Keith_[Crypt-City of the Deathless One]_1500_1_0.6 | Bracebridge, Samuel_[Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks Book Number Fifteen in the Jack Harkaway Series]_1500_37_0.7 |
Gradually Mr. Warrington made acquaintance with some of the members of the House and the Bar; who, when they came to know him, spoke of him as a young gentleman of good parts and good breeding, and in terms so generally complimentary, that his good uncle's heart relented towards him, and Dora and Flora began once more to smile upon him. This reconciliation began when His Royal Highness the Duke, after being defeated by the French in the affair of Hastenbeck, signed the famous capitulation with them under the authority of His Majesty George II. refused to ratify. His Royal Highness, as is well known, renounced his commissions after this disgrace, set aside his commander's baton—which, it must be admitted, he had not borne with much skill or success—and thereafter never again led armies or participated in public life. The stout warrior would not let a single word of complaint escape his lips toward his father and sovereign; but as he withdrew with wounded honour, having no further interests, authority or positions to claim, it seems that Sir Miles Warrington’s anger at his nephew waned in tandem with his respect for the Royal Highness. While our two gentlemen strolled through St. James’s Park one day with their friend Mr. Lambert, they encountered His Royal Highness in plain clothing and without a star, bowing deeply to him, who was pleased to pause and converse with them. He asked Mr. Lambert what he thought of Lord Ligonier, the new commander of the Horse Guards, and the duties he now undertook. Recognizing the young men—drawing on his famed memory—he told Mr. Warrington, “You did well, sir, by not coming with me when I had asked you in the spring.” “I was sorry then, sir,” Mr Warrington said, bowing low, “but I am even more sorry now.” On which the Prince said, "Thank you, sir," and, touching his hat, walked away. Mrs. Esmond Warrington was so struck by the account of that interview and its ensuing discussion—brought to her in a letter from her younger son—that she recounted the anecdote to her friends and acquaintances hundreds of times, until all of them knew it and perhaps grew weary of it. Our gentlemen went through the Park, and so towards the Strand, where they had business. Pointing to the lion perched atop the Earl of Northumberland’s house at Charing Cross, Mr. Lambert declares, “Harry Warrington!” your brother is like yonder lion. " " Because he is as brave as one," says Harry. " Because I respect virgins!" says George, laughing. " Because you are a stupid lion. Because you turn your back on the East, and absolutely salute the setting sun. Child, why would you expect any worldly benefit from being courteous to a man in despair and disgrace? Your uncle will be more angry with you than ever—and so am I, sir." Yet Mr. Lambert’s chuckle persisted in his rakish fashion, and he showed no sign of even a smidgen of displeasure. Indeed, if Harry Warrington harbored a zeal for military affairs and study, the wars sweeping across Europe and the conversations within the London societies he frequented would have stoked his passion. Though the Prince of Hanover had been defeated, the Protestant hero—King of Prussia—was filling the world with his glory and securing astonishing victories, and I find it fortunate that my poor Harry did not take part; otherwise, his biographer would have had to repeat the battles that another hand had already described. “I am glad, I say, that Harry Warrington was absent from Rossbach on the famed Gunpowder Fête‑day of 5 November 1757, nor from the grand slaughter at Leuthen a month later; these prodigious deeds will soon be recounted in other volumes to which I, and the world, are eager to attend.” Would you have this history compete with yonder book? Could my jaunty, yellow park-phaeton run counter to that grim chariot of thundering war? Could my meek little jog-trot Pegasus meet the shock of yon steed of foaming bit and flaming nostril? Dear, kind reader—whom I enjoy speaking with from time to time as we step down from the stage where our figures perform, dressed in the habits and using the parlance of past ages—my kind, patient reader! It is a mercy for both of us that Harry Warrington did not follow the King of the Prussians as we had once considered; otherwise I would have been obliged to recount the very battles Carlyle was already set to paint, and I would not wish you to draw contemptible comparisons between myself and that master. Harry Warrington neither joined the King of the Borussians nor was content to stay away; he longed for, and resented, his very abstention. He led a sulky useless life, that is the fact. He dangled about the military coffee-houses. He did not care for reading anything save a newspaper. His turn was not literary. He even considered novels stupid, and could not understand how the ladies who wept over Mr. Richardson might be moved by such nonsense. He would laugh in a hearty, jolly manner—only a little delayed—after the joke had ended. Pray, why should all gentlemen have a literary turn? And do we like some of our friends the worse because they never turned a couplet in their lives? Ruined and compelled into idleness, he depended on his brother for supplies; when he read a book he would fall asleep, for there was no suitable work for his strong hands—how fortunate he was not to get into further trouble. Why, in the case of Achilles himself, when his mother sent him to the king’s court – whatever the king’s proper name may be – in order to keep him out of harm’s way, what transpired among the women with whom he was compelled to languish and idle? And how did Pyrrhus come into the world? A strong, spirited young Achilles should not be led too much by women; he should not idle with distaffs or serve coffee cups, and when he is not fighting, he is likely to fall into even greater mischief. The soft‑hearted elder ladies of the Lambert household—whom he chiefly befriended—offered Harry relentless compassion and kindness, gifts that only a few women can truly bestow. If a man is in grief, who lifts him?
If in trouble, who consoles him?
If in wrath, who soothes him?
If in joy, who makes him doubly glad?
If in prosperity, who rejoices with him?
If in disgrace, who holds him up against the world and tends the wounds inflicted by Fortune’s slings and arrows with gentle ointments and warm poultices? Who but woman, if you please? Do you, struck ill and sore by Fate’s relentless blows, possess one or two of these gentle physicians? Return thanks to the gods that they have left you so much of consolation. What gentleman is not more or less a Prometheus? Who does not possess his rock, his chain, and his liver all in such a dire condition? But the sea‑nymphs arrive—gentle, sympathetic—kissing our trembling feet, moistening our parched lips with tears, and doing their blessed best to console us, the Titans, never turning their backs on us after our downfall. While Theo and her mother were full of pity for Harry, Hetty’s heart seemed both hard and overtly savage toward him. She chafed that his position was not more glorious; she was angry that he was still dependent and idle. The whole world was in arms, and could he not carry a musket? It was harvest season, and hundreds of thousands of reapers fanned the fields with their gleaming sickles; could he not wield his own and reap a sheaf or two of glory? Why, how savage the little thing is with him!" Papa says, after an incident in which, as usual, Miss Hetty had been firing small shots at the quivering target that appeared and positioned itself each day in Mrs. Lambert's drawing‑room. Her conduct is perfectly abominable!" cries mamma; "she deserves to be whipped, and sent to bed. | Mr. Atterbury complying kindly, Esmond writ a hasty note on his table-book to my lord's man, bidding him get the horses for Mr. Atterbury, and ride with him, and send Esmond's own valise to the Gatehouse prison, whither he resolved to go and give himself up. BOOK II. CONTAINS MR. Esmond’s military career and other matters concerning the Esmond family. I am in prison, visited, yet no solace has been offered to me there. Those who have witnessed the sudden death of revered and beloved people can understand the futility of comfort—and know the depth of Harry Esmond’s anguish after playing that ghastly midnight act of blood and homicide. He felt he could not face his dear mistress and tell her that story. He was grateful that the compassionate Atterbury had agreed to deliver the sad news to her. His dying, anguished kinsman, lying on his deathbed, had whispered into Esmond’s ear a great secret. If he were to reveal it—doing so with fairness and honor—such a discovery would only add to the sorrow of those he loves most, who were already already grieving. Will he risk bringing shame and confusion upon all those bound to him by such tender ties of affection and gratitude? degrade his father's widow? Should he impeach and sully the honor of his father and kinsman? and for what? For a barren title, meant to be borne at the expense of an innocent boy—his dearest benefactress’s son. He had grappled with the issue in his conscience as his ailing lord delivered his final confession. Ambition, temptation, and even justice stood on one side; love, gratitude, and fidelity pleaded on the other. When the internal battle finally ended, a sense of righteous joy blossomed within Harry; with tears of gratitude in his eyes, he thanked God for the decision he could now make. When my own blood turned away from me, he thought, “These dearest friends have received and cherished me.” When I was a nameless orphan in need of protection, I found a kind soul to be my guardian—one who has since confessed and repented for the innocent wrong he committed. Embracing that consoling thought, he left to surrender himself to the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor. Three days after arriving at Gatehouse Prison—where a painful, inflamed wound still ached—Esmond was preoccupied with thoughts that both sought to console him and to weigh him down. At that moment his keeper informed him that a visitor was looking for him; though she wore a black hood and was shrouded in mourning, Esmond instantly recognized her as his beloved mistress. He rose weakly from his bed and, as the guard closed the door behind them, advanced toward her, extending his left hand—his right hand being wounded and bandaged—and would have offered her the familiar gesture of affection she had always shown him. Yet Lady Castlewood stepped back from him, retaking her hood, and leaned against the great stanchioned door that the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her face, pallid as a corpse, stared up through the hood, and her normally gentle eyes were fixed on him with a tragic, angry sorrow that made the young man, unaccustomed to such cruelty, avert his gaze. “And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, “is exactly where I see you; that is why you have brought me here.” “You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,” he said, though he could scarcely find the words, his emotions overwhelmed by seeing her. She stepped forward a little, then stood silent and trembling, gazing at him through her black drapes; her small white hands clasped, lips quivering, eyes hollow. After a brief pause, he added, “I don’t mean to reproach you.” My grief alone already suffices. Retract your hand—do not touch me with it! she cried. " Look! It’s soaked in blood! “I wish they’d taken it all,” Esmond murmured; “if you fail to be kind to me.” Where is my husband?" she broke out. " Give me back my husband, Henry. Why did you linger that midnight, witnessing his blood‑spilling death? Why did the traitor escape, and who committed the act? You, the stalwart of your house, who pledged to lay down your life for us! You whom he loved and trusted, to whom I confided and who vowed devotion and gratitude, whom I believed—yes, I believed you—why are you here and where has my noble Francis gone? Why did you come among us? You have given us only grief and sorrow—a bitter, bitter repentance for the love and kindness we bestowed upon you. Have I ever wronged thee, Henry? You were just an orphan when I first met you—a boy of goodness, nobility, and trust. He would have had you sent away, but, like a foolish woman, I begged him to allow you to stay. You feigned love for us, and we trusted you; yet you ruined our home, drove my husband from me, and ultimately caused me to lose him—the husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him: you know I worshipped him, and in return, he became transformed for me. He was no longer my old Francis—my dear, dear soldier. He had loved me before he saw you, while I loved him. God Himself bears witness to the depth of my love for him. Why didn’t he have you leave among us? It was only his kindness that could have given me everything then. Although you were young, weak, and alone, I sensed an evil that came with keeping you. I could read it in the lines of your face and the depth of your eyes. I saw that they boded harm to us—and it came, as I had known. Why didn’t you die when you had smallpox? I came to watch you, yet in your delirium you did not recognise me, yet you called out to me even though I was right beside you. All that has transpired since has been a just judgment upon my wicked, jealous heart. Oh, I am punished—awfully punished! My husband lies in blood—murdered while defending me, my kind, generous lord—and yet you were there, Henry, and you let him die! Her words, spoken in the turbulence of grief by a woman who was usually quiet and spoke only with a gentle smile and soothing tone, rang in Esmond’s ears; it is said he echoed many of them in the fever that came over him from his wound, perhaps fueled by the sharp sting of her undeserved rebuke. It seemed that his unwavering sacrifice and devotion to the lady and her family had turned into a source of misfortune and reproach, his very presence becoming a cause of grief and his continued life a well of bitterness for them. While Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly and swiftly, tears absent, he offered no plea or protest, instead lying at the foot of his prison bed, tormented by the thought that the gentle hand he had loved could suddenly become the instrument of his cruel pain, helpless before her sorrow. Her words rang through his memories, evoking his entire boyhood and adolescence; yet that same lady, once the affectionate and gentle angel he had adored and revered, now confronted him with sharp words and a hostile demeanor. "I wish I could be in my lord’s stead," he groaned. I am to blame for having been absent, madam. Yet destiny surpasses us all, having ordained what has come to pass. It had been better for me to have died when I had the illness. | 0.7 | Historical fiction | Thackeray, W. M. | Thackeray, W. M. | 8123 | 2511 | Thackeray, W. M._[The Virginians]_1500_153_0.5 | Thackeray, W. M._[The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the Service of Her Majesty Queen Anne]_1500_44_0.8 |
And, Everell, it were well if you fixed your eye on—" "Stop, sir! Stop, I beg you, and tell me—not because I have any thoughts—what intentions, that is, what purpose, I mean, are behind this prohibition? Everell’s earnest, ingenuous appeal moved his father into answering, but he himself felt the reasons lose half their force as they slipped from the shroud of mystery. He acknowledged, in the first place, what his most cherished wishes had been in relation to Hope and Everell. He then communicated the intimations that had been thrown out, that his views for his son were mercenary. Everell laughed at the idea. " "Nobody," he replied, "could bear such an accusation, sir, whose whole life has been a living rebuttal of it; and as for me, I am content knowing that I would never marry a woman of fortune simply for her wealth, nor would I consider marrying her if we both were penniless." I am convinced this is no empty boast, my son; yet we have made ourselves a target for the world, and, as Brother Winthrop has repeatedly reminded me, we must be careful not to seem even slightly evil. There are covetous souls who, on the slightest pretext, would suspect us of pursuing selfish worldly ends. Thus, sir, to earn the approval of those who covet us, we must lower ourselves to their level and pretend we are capable of such base passions. Everell, my son, you speak presumptuously; though we are capable of evil, we shall set that question aside for now. Our individual wishes must be surrendered to the public good. We have laid the foundation of a building, and our children must be united in a way that ensures its progress and stability once the current builders are no longer present. Thus, my dear father, the precious gem will be set into mortar just as a common brick, wherever it best serves the builders’ goals and perspectives. You are displeased, sir. Perhaps I spoke somewhat hastily. I beg you, on this single final occasion, not to regard us as mere machines—rather, we owe you our love and reverence. And obedience, Everell." " “Yes, sir, I can demonstrate my obedience simply by refusing to do what you forbid.” Have I, then, strained parental authority so far, that you think it necessary thus to qualify your duty?" " No, my dear father, indeed; because your authority has always been too gentle to be perceived, I flinch at the burden of a new yoke. You will admit that my submission has not been less perfect for being voluntary. "'Trust me for the future, and I promise—' Everell's rash commitment was perhaps averted when Madame Winthrop entered, asking whether the gentlemen were ready to attend her lecture.' "Come, Mr. Everell," she said, "here is Esther to show you the way—there can be no safer guide than her." Miss Downing stood beside her aunt, yet she withdrew at Everell's approach, wounded by what to her seemed a request for his attention. He sensed her instinctive movement, yet without giving the impression that he had noticed it, he offered his arm to Madam Winthrop and said, “Since there is no need to guide someone who is already fully self‑directed, I will not intrude on Miss Downing; if you will allow me, I would be honored to attend you.” Madam Winthrop submitted with the best grace to this cross purpose. Elder Fletcher offered his arm to Miss Downing in an effort to draw her into conversation, but she remained timid, downcast and reserved; mentally comparing her to Hope Leslie, he realized that Everell would hardly ever prefer her. Even when they are grave and rigid, the old are said to influence the young and the carefree; perhaps, similarly, a dim eye delights in bright colours. Is that Gorton's company?" Everell pointed toward several prisoners, who, guarded by a file of soldiers, appeared to be moving toward the sanctuary. Yes, Madam Winthrop replied, “The governor and our ruling elders have decided that, while they await trial next week, they will receive the full benefit of our public teachings in the interim.” I should fear they would deem this punishment before trial," said Everell. " They were initially reluctant, but after being promised that they could speak only sober and truthful words following the sermon, they agreed to come forward. Gorton—denominated by Hubbard as a “prodigious minister of exorbitant novelties”—and his followers were forcibly transported from Rhode Island to stand trial for civil and ecclesiastical offenses that, according to the learned antiquary Mr. Savage, fell outside the jurisdiction of Massachusetts. The prisoners were ushered into the church, and placed before the ruling elders. The governor entered without his halberd‑bearers—an omission made only on Sundays—and, accompanied by his family, proceeded slowly to his pew, where Miss Leslie already sat between Mrs. Grafton and Sir Philip Gardiner. She rose, and contrived to exchange her location for one next Miss Downing. " In a low whisper she told Esther, “Look at that boy standing in the corner of the gallery, beside the lamp.” I see him; but what of him?" " Why, just observe how he gazes at me: his eye is like a burning-glass—it really scorches me. I wish the service were over. Do you think it will be long?" " "It might be long, but I don’t think it’ll be tedious," Esther replied, her voice conveying the sternest rebuke she could ever command. Oh, it will be both!" Hope, her voice trembling with despair, whispered, “Mr. Wheeler’s up on the pulpit, and he keeps talking about eternity until he forgets time entirely.” My dear Hope!" said Esther, in a voice of mingled surprise and reproof. The service began, and Hope dutifully tried to maintain a dignified posture and join Esther in singing the psalm, yet her mind quickly drifted, and her voice faded. The preacher had not proceeded far in his discourse before all her patience was exhausted. Even the most zealous defenders of the sanctuary’s passive duties could have felt sympathy for our heroine, who had a perfectly understandable reason for her feverish impatience; she was forced to remain seated while a young man who considered himself a “universal scholar” was determined—much like the impulsive preachers of the era—to impart everything he knew in that single speech, then called a prophesying, a spontaneous outpouring. He was intent not only on rooting out Gorton's heresies, but on purging every flaw from the spiritual realm. To Hope, he seemed to walk with an even, direct stride, like the mortal in the fairy tale doomed to roam an endless plain forever. Do, Esther, look at the candles," she whispered; "don't you think it must be nine o'clock?" " Oh, hush! no, not yet eight. " Hope sighed audibly, and once more resumed a listening attitude. All human labours have their end, and therefore had the preacher's. But, alas for our heroine! When he had finished, Gorton—whose face the last hour had sent to withering as if he were a criminal doomed to scourging before execution—rose. Smartened by a sense of injustice, he reiterated every point of the discourse, invented points where there had been none, and launched a refutation and attack that ultimately convinced him that all ordinances, ministers, sacraments, and alike were merely men’s inventions—“silver shrines of Diana.” While this self-styled "professor of mysteries" spoke, Hope was so much interested in his genuine enthusiasm and mysticism (for he was the Swedenborg of his day) that she forgot her own secret subject of anxiety; but when he had finished, and half a dozen of the ruling elders rose at the same moment to prove the weapons of orthodoxy upon the arch heretic, she whispered to Esther, "I can never bear this; I must make an apology to Madam Winthrop, and go home! | Lord Argentine proceeded, as directed by the king, to the eastern end of Tower-street, where he found Lord Craven, and having delivered him the king's missive, and shown him the signet, they proceeded to the western side of the Tower Dock, and having procured a sufficient number of miners and engineers, together with a supply of powder from the fortress, commenced undermining the whole of the row of habitations called Tower-bank, on the edge of the dock, having first, it is scarcely necessary to state, taken care to clear them of their inhabitants. After the powder was laid, the charges were fired, hurling the buildings skyward. At that juncture the entire western bank of the Tower Moat was lined with low wooden houses and sheds, and, mindful of the king’s orders, Lord Argentine proposed that they be demolished. The latter yielded, and they set to work; within a short time all of the buildings—regardless of type—between the bulwark gate and the city postern on the northern side of the Tower, almost opposite Bowyer Tower, were destroyed. Before the task was finished, the Duke of York joined them, lending his full assistance, and by nightfall a clear space of at least a hundred yards had been created between the ancient fortress and the looming danger. Meanwhile, the blaze raged on with relentless, unabated fury. It scorched the whole city all through Monday night, razing Saint Paul’s, felling Ludgate Hill and consuming everything in its path, then, after crossing Fleet Bridge, it unleashed its fury upon the great thoroughfare beyond. On Tuesday, a vast expanse of the city lay in blaze, its archways and rooftops rolled in unending flames. All of Fleet Street, extending from the Inner Temple and Ludgate Hill eastward along the Thames to Tower Dock—where the fire was halted by a wide gap left by the demolished houses—lay engulfed in flames. From that point the fire’s reach extended as far as the end of Mark‑Lane, Lime‑Street, and Leadenhall, where the sturdy walls successfully resisted its fury. Ascending once more along the Standard on Cornhill, Threadneedle Street, and Austin Friars, it enveloped Drapers' Hall and the entire mass of buildings west of Throgmorton Street. Next the conflagration spread to the new houses behind Saint Margaret’s in Lothbury, and then westward to the upper end of Cateaton‑Street, from which it leapt to the second postern on London Wall, demolishing the ramparts and all suburbs as far as Cripplegate, and consuming Little Wood‑Street, Mungwell‑Street, and the whole western portion of the city wall up to Aldersgate. After passing a short distance north of Saint Sepulchre’s—already destroyed by the blaze—it crossed Holborn Bridge, ascended Saint Andrew’s Hill, traversed the terminus of Shoe Lane, and continued on to the end of Fetter Lane. All buildings within the boundary were engulfed in fire, burning with terrible fury. They went on until the middle of Wednesday, when the wind had abated and a large number of houses were demolished as Lord Argentine had planned. The fire was brought under control, and although it flared up again in a few places later, it caused only minor damage and can be said to have ended by that same day. Soon after dawn on that Saturday, a young man—plain yet costingly dressed in the clothes worn by men of stature—made his way across the burning heaps of rubbish and along the rows of ruined, blackened walls that had once marked the homes of Fleet‑Street. With considerable risk and difficulty, he pushed forward—clambering over smoldering heaps, cutting past toppled walls that crashed behind him, and crawling beneath a towering pile of blackened rafters—finally reaching Fleet Bridge, where he paused to stare at the ruin that lay before him. The sight was truly mournful, pulling tears from his eyes. The devastation wrought by the blaze seemed almost beyond belief. The great beams were reduced to charcoal, the stones calcined until they glowed white as snow, and the walls and towers that remained standing were so wrecked that their collapse seemed inevitable. The water in the wells and fountains boiled, and even the muddy Fleet released a hot plume of steam. The blaze still clung to the basements of many houses, especially where wine, spirits, or other flammable stores had been kept; these “voragos of subterranean cellars,” as Evelyn calls them, continued to flash flame, belching a prodigious smoke and stench. Despite the danger that lay ahead, the young man climbed Ludgate Hill, still beholding the devastation, passed through a ruined gateway whose terminus remained unscathed, and then approached the former site of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He piled a mound of detritus at the far end of Ludgate Street, then gazed upon the colossal ruin, which seemed less the wreck of a single building than the shattered remnant of an entire city. The hefty walls and buttresses shattered and split apart; huge stones fractured and turned to ash by the fire; and large plumes of dust that swept from the pillars left them looking pale and almost spectral. For the first time its vast extent became plain to see, and, oddly enough, the ruins appeared twice as large as the original building had been. Despite the fierce blaze, the central tower still loomed upright, its stones chipped, shattered, and scorched into ash by the searing heat of the flames. A portion of the roof, as it fell, shattered the choir’s solid, immense‑thick floor and plunged into St Faith’s, destroying the booksellers’ magazine of books and paper stored there. The portico, built by Inigo Jones and greatly admired by Evelyn—who praised it as “comparable to any in Europe” and pronounced its loss most lamentably—suffered the same destruction as the rest of the building; only its architrave remained intact, with its inscription unscathed. After being exhausted by that mournful and striking vista, the young man, with some effort and difficulty, crossed the churchyard and reached Cheapside, where an even more devastating scene of destruction than the one he had previously witnessed burst before him. On the right side of London Bridge—visible through the crumbling chasms of houses and almost up to the Tower—there lay nothing but ruins, while a comparable wasteland stretched across the left. The devastation had altered the city so profoundly that, without landmarks to guide him, the young man would have been unable to know where he was. The tower and ruined walls of St Peter’s Church marked the entrance to Wood Street; he entered it and trudged through the narrow lanes, which were far more littered with rubbish and shrouded in smoke and fire‑vapors than the wider streets, until he reached a section he had once known well. But, alas! How altered that familiar place had become. The house he sought lay only as a jumble of shattered ruins. While staring at the ruins, a voice called from behind him; he turned to find Mr. Bloundel and his son Stephen pushing through what had once been Maiden Lane. A warm greeting was exchanged between them, and Mr Bloundel lingered in quiet silence, gazing for a moment at the wreckage of his home. Tears welled in his eyes, and his companions felt no less moved. As he turned to leave, he looked upon the young man with a stern expression and said, “How is it, Leonard, that I see you in such bright apparel?” Certainly, now is not an appropriate time for such frivolous exhibition. Lord Argentine, after revealing the details, explained to the astonished grocer everything that had happened, adding that he had intended to visit him that very day, had he not been already summoned, in order to give the explanation. Where might we find Farmer Wingfield and Blaize? asked Mr. Bloundel. " Your prolonged absence has left us deeply uneasy. Both are lodged in the palace, said Lord Argentine, “having suffered only minor wounds in the blaze; yet I’m certain—indeed, I am sure—they’ll be able to leave today.” Mr. Bloundel replied, “Very well; and now may I congratulate you, Leonard—yes, my lord—on this new dignity, a title that sounds so strange!” "And accept my congratulations as well, my lord," he added. Oh! do not style me thus," said Argentine. | 0.4 | Historical fiction | Sedgwick, Catharine Maria | Ainsworth, Harrison | 76028 | 11082 | Sedgwick, Catharine Maria_[History of the Jews in Russia and Poland, Volume 1 [of 3] From the Beginning until the Death of Alexander I (1825)]_1500_42_0.5 | Ainsworth, Harrison_[Old Saint Paul's: A Tale of the Plague and the Fire]_1500_132_0.9 |
People may talk as long as they please about innate dignity and the majesty of mind, but the majesty of fine clothes has a much greater influence upon popular opinion,—else wherefore that elderly proverb which sayeth that "fine feathers make fine birds?" Everyone knows that King Herod’s silver petticoat made the foolish Judean mob mistake him for a god, and today—right when it mattered to Haldane—Frotho’s extraordinary magnificence caused his people to mistake him for a hero. The tide of popular opinion was so strong that when Haldane, simply dressed, mounted his snow‑white steed and rode into the hall accompanied only by Haquin and a handful of his father's friends, they scarcely spared him a glance—despite his youthful pride and graceful beauty. All eyes turned to Frotho’s painted waistcoat and superb ermine cloak, and Haldane saw with extreme disgust that his friends and the warriors who had fought beside him under his father’s banner had been deliberately excluded from the council, a decision facilitated by his uncle. " The states and the troops are present," the prince declared; "let them bear witness to this duel, for your ungenerous ambition will bring death. If you seek a double crown, prove you know how to defend it; descend from your throne, meet me on equal terms, and let Denmark be awarded to the victor." Slowly, very slowly, King Frotho rose from his throne, sensing that something awaited him; though not exactly a coward, he felt unprepared to confront his nephew, whose martial feats he well knew, and earnestly and anxiously offered a supplication to Surter—to recall his promise and to protect his kinsman in this desperate emergency. Surter was not deaf; barely had the monarch stepped down from his throne when a marvel seized the entire assembly: the distant rush of wings and a gigantic raven—black as Odin’s own hair—glided calmly through the clear air toward his throne, hovered over Frotho’s head, and triumphantly flapped its enormous wings. Haldane suspected a trick and Haquin was startled, yet the crowd witnessed a miracle: Odin’s will manifested through his chosen messenger—a raven that hovered for a moment to witness Frotho’s general acknowledgment, then, amid deafening shouts, ascended slowly, cleaving the clouds, and vanished. During the scene, Haldane stood apart, brimming with contempt for his people’s ingratitude; the crowd was so raucous that even his few friends could not speak in his favor. Frotho, grateful for Surter’s timely aid, experienced gratitude for the first time in his life; remembering the spirit’s command, he refrained from taking what he hardly understood how to spare—the despised life of Haldane. Assuming an air of paternal care and kindness, he bade the young prince withdraw from his presence and realm, assuring him that no molestation would befall him. "Son of my brother," he said, "seek another realm for your rule, for the gods have already bestowed that kingdom upon Frotho. Depart in peace and take with you whatever portion of my treasure you desire." “‘The crown, then,’ the prince replied boldly, ‘for what is there, traitor!’” in thy power to bestow, that is not already mine by right? No! mean-souled coward! I scorn thy courtesy, and I defy thy anger." But this gallant resistance yielded nothing; his own party advised him to stay clear of Frotho’s javelins, and, wise enough to heed counsel from both friends and enemies, he obeyed—after bidding a tender farewell to his betrothed Ildegarda and promising to claim her as queen—fled to Sweden to solicit aid from its war‑harboring monarch, a plea that went unanswered; soon afterward, Frotho learned he had been murdered on that inhospitable coast, and, though the perpetrator remained unknown, he quietly congratulated himself on the swift vengeance of his ally Surter. Haquin, alarmed by the unfolding events and doubting King Frotho’s honesty more than ever, fled court with the young Harold—the only surviving son of his murdered master—proclaiming him the rightful king of Denmark and raising his banner at the heart of the nation. Outraged by his uncle’s brutal cruelty, many powerful nobles joined him at once. Frotho, driven by fear and a newfound resolve, and trusting in Surter’s promises, assumed command of his forces and prepared for a civil war. Numerous skirmishes erupted among the warring factions, yet none proved decisive; however, Frotho’s forces generally held the upper hand, especially whenever the king led them personally. Elated by the discovery, the king’s joy nearly unseated his dignity; he fancied himself a great general and bold warrior, but after drinking heavily with the old companions who had made the find, he fell into a deep sleep. During that slumber, Haquin stormed the camp, overran the generals, captured the king’s son Sevald, and nearly hauled the unsuspecting sovereign himself. Poor Sevald was marched toward the enemy camp, carried away amid a shroud of sorrow and despair. “Do not be offended, prince,” Haquin said as the man was brought before him in his tent—“do not resent that the circumstances of war have cast you into my custody for a time; it is no disgrace to be a prisoner of Haquin.” Our war is against your father, not with you; should Harold succeed—even by slaying his uncle—he will never wrong you but will grant you your rightful due: a second throne in Denmark, so do not be disturbed by this war’s trivial accident. It was offered with good intentions, but it failed utterly, and Sevald would have continued to grieve – had he not realized that a fair princess comforts far better than even the seasoned soldier. He learned that his dear cousin Ildegarda had joined her father’s camp, and he inferred that the situation, though still grave, was not as dire as he had imagined. Sevald was deeply enamored with his fair kinswoman, and after Haldane’s death freed her, he devised an ideal romantic plan to end the civil war and restore peace to Denmark. He intended to ask his father to give Ildegarda in marriage, to have Harold join the alliance, and thus reconcile all parties to his rule. Unfortunately, everyone involved—each for different reasons—opposed the scheme. True to Haldane’s memory, Ildegarda would accept no second love; Haquin, loyal to his chosen cause, would rather consign his daughter to death than hand her over to a son of Frotho; and the Danish king would lose all judgment at the mere prospect of such a destructive union—his own blood with that of his deadliest foe, for whom Ildegarda’s father had become. When he heard it, terror and rage seized him; he blasphemed his son with the fiercest curses should he dare to marry his cousin, and, like a madman, fled to Biorno’s cave in the forest to seek counsel in his most desperate hour. He found the sorcerer at home, and willing to assist him, which he civilly did by the best advice in his power; he desired him to return to his camp and attack the troops of Haquin, promising to commit that leader, his daughter, and prince Sevald, safely into his custody; at the same time hinting that, as Surter had done as much for his friend as could decently be expected, he need not call upon him for further assistance, which, unless from his own imprudence, he would not need, and Lok had prohibited them from supplying. | His hair beneath the gray Stetson was wet, his boots were sodden and muddy, one arm was thrust limply into the front of his coat as if paralyzed. She saw that the sleeve was thickly streaked with blood. While her words drifted off the tongue, he leaned forward and tumbled to her feet. Not one to seek assistance, she lifted him by the armpits onto her bed and cut off his sleeve before he could even open his eyes. She needed only a second to warm a basin of water, then she hastened to cleanse the wound. When she pulled out the ragged strips of cloth the bullet had torn into his flesh, the man's face turned ghastly and she heard his teeth grind, but he made no other sound. That must've hurt, right? She smiled at him, and he attempted to mirror her grin. What brought this about? she queried. " Accident. " " You've come a long way? He nodded. " Why didn't you call for help? It—wasn't worth while." She stared at him in awe, admiring his ruggedness, and was startled when he blurted, “So you’re June!” Yes." He shut his eyes and lay still while she poured some brandy over his head, then he whispered, “Please don’t bother.” I have to leave now. You won't be able to go on until you've eaten something. She rested a gentle, cool hand on his forehead as he tried to stand, and he fell back again, watching her with curious eyes. Having just finished his meal, another footstep rang outside, followed immediately by a heavy knock. Hey, June!" She called out. Are you up?" It was Marshal Jim Devlin, and as the girl rose, she froze—staring at the expression on the wounded man's face. His dark eyes widened, haunted by desperation. “What’s the matter, Mr. Devlin?” she answered. " Have you noticed any wounded man in the last half‑hour? She cast another glance at her guest, seeing him stare defiantly, but his face was devoid of any pleading. “What, in the world, do you mean?” A robbery broke out at Anvil Creek, and gunfire erupted. We're certain that one of the gang members was wounded, yet he escaped. Pete, a waterman, reports having seen a sickly-looking fellow heading across the tundra in that direction. I thought you might have spotted him. Again, June’s gaze slid back to the pale face of the stranger. Having risen, he saw the direct question in her eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and lifted his right palm as if surrendering; he then replied to the marshal, “I’m sorry you can’t come in, Mr. Devlin, but I’m just going to bed.” Oh, that’s fine. I’ll take a look in your bunk‑house. Apologies for interrupting. As the footsteps faded, the stranger wet his lips and asked, “Why did you do that?” I don't know. You are valiant, and valiant men aren't malevolent. Still, I couldn't bear to force anyone out of God’s sunshine into the darkness. I don't believe in prisons, to be honest. When Llewellyn recounted to the other wag‑boys how June helped him escape, his tale drew the excited exclamations she’d longed for—yet the Scrap Iron Kid cut in with a menacing tone, warning, “Look here, George: don’t think you can take advantage of what she did for you when you were hurt, or I’ll make sure everyone knows.” Aw, rats!" In a fit of rage, Llewellyn shouted. What do you consider me to be? Staring at the Kid with a cold glare, he said, “It won’t do her any good having you linger around, either.” June’s treatment of Llewellyn and her rugged way of living earned the Wag‑boys’ admiration and respect; though they kept their distance, they watched over her from afar. Soon they devised a way to serve her, even though she wouldn’t learn of it for months. The Dummy came home that night to tell his partners that Sammy Sternberg—the owner of the Miners’ Rest—was bragging about having conquered June, and, in turn, Llewellyn, acting as a committee of one, told Sammy that his lies must cease. After a few nights of drunken boasting, Sammy provoked the Scrap Iron Kid—who was playing blackjack—to immediately floor him with a .45, while a nearby Swede struck the prostrate Sternberg in the most conspicuous spot of his green‑and‑purple waistcoat, breaking a rib. Soon the camp’s rugged men began treating June with the utmost courtesy, and because she had been fondly adopted by the Wag‑boys, she earned the nickname the Wag‑lady. Meanwhile, June's prosperity grew like a steady sunrise, buoyed by the trust of Anvil Creek's rugged folk and the steady flow of need for her guarded coffers. The homeless men who patronized her place began entrusting her with their gold sacks, so she went to Harry Hope, the P.C. agent, and bought a safe to keep their valuables secure. After that, she would vigilantly guard large amounts of cash all night while the owners slept soundly in the back room. As winter settled in, June began to find herself spending more and more time with Harry Hope. She grew fond of him too, for his big, boyish stature and infectious merriment won women's hearts. After years in the Northland, its wind-swept plains stripped him of many city-born traits, leaving him unflappable, impulsive, and hearty. While the frontier may strip away some evils, it also removes certain virtues, and Harry Hope was by no means a saint. As the nights stretched longer, he began to stop by on his way uptown to chat with June. That evening he hesitated, then asked June, “Could you handle something for me?” Of course," she answered. He threw a leather wallet into her lap, laughing. Since you're the town’s banker, please make sure it’s locked up for the night. Oh-h!" she gasped. " We've got a fortune—thousands of dollars! I prefer not to. Come! you must! I failed to lock it into the company’s safe on time, and carrying it around would inevitably provoke a frisk. "Where are you headed?" Down to Sternberg's. I plan to outsmart his faro dealer. Tonight’s my lucky night, you know. Realizing the camp’s lawlessness, June felt uneasy as she set the money aside. By the close of the evening, she had steadily let her fears slip away. Little after midnight, when the spacious front room of the bunk‑house sat empty, the door opened, letting in a gust of icy air through which two men appeared. They were unfamiliar faces to June, and when she asked if they wanted a bed, they declined with a quiet “No.” They retreated toward the stove, eyes fixed on every corner of the room with curious intensity. June had never shooed a stranger from her coal‑burner—even if he could’t afford a bed—but remembering the money stashed in her safe, she hissed at the two men to leave. Neither man stirred. They blinked at her in a way that sent brief, nervous spasms up her spine. I tell you, it's too late—you can’t stay! "That's a pity," one of them whispered. He crossed toward the desk behind her, where she gently closed the heavy safe door. It rang with a sharp metallic click, making the fellow’s eyes gleam. “Is that safe locked?” he inquired. " “ Yes, it’s locked,” she lied, faking confidence. He smiled as if to soothe her, yet his eyes flashed with a wicked leer that sent her heart pounding wildly. She was about to shout and alert her lodgers, but instead she met the man's gaze with a defiant stare. The stranger scanned the room, then said, “I suppose we’ll stay awhile.” He pulled a chair up beside the door and beckoned his companion to do the same. They reclined comfortably, and June imagined them listening with rapt attention. They sat there for a half‑hour, then an hour, watching her every move and occasionally exchanging hushed words that slipped beneath her hearing. Her nerves were on the brink of hysteria from the long wait, when she watched both men lower the front legs of their chairs and rise together. The next instant the door swung violently yet noiselessly inward and a masked man with a gun in his hand leaped out of the night. | 0.4 | Adventure stories | Dods, Mary Diana | Beach, Rex | 65597 | 32101 | Dods, Mary Diana_[With Links of Steel; Or, The Peril of the Unknown]_1500_38_0.8 | Beach, Rex_[The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure]_1500_22_0.8 |
" "And why not do it if it would be convenient?" said the Cardinal, as if he was counselling the purchase of a suit of clothes. " It is against the law of God and the Church," said Miles. " But such a thing could be granted by the Pope. " " But could the Pope be quite sure it is agreeable to the law of God? When the King's last baby died, I heard a whisper among those who were at Greenwich, saying that God would not bless such a marriage with children. " " Ah! you heard that, did you?" said the Cardinal, looking up sharply. " But there is the lady Mary," he added the next minute. " Yes, but the King bath had several other children, but none to live. " For a minute the Cardinal sat with unseeing eyes on the hem of his richly embroidered robe, yet he spoke no word. After that pause he instructed Miles to take a pen and copy the instructions he was about to give, though those instructions concerned a completely different matter. Miles thought that his master had forgotten what he had said, as that subject never appeared again. But the seed had been sown. Wolsey was a man who never forgot. He could wait. ' He was a man who knew how to wait; and the Queen's nephew, Charles the Fifth, had outwitted him and baulked his ambition. After promising to use all his influence to secure the honor and glory of becoming Pope, he appointed his tutor to the chair of St. Peter and crowned him with the triple crown, knowing that someone would have to shoulder the hefty cost—and that he would strike at Emperor Charles through Queen Catherine. DID HE LOVE HER? In 1523, Wolsey’s hopes of becoming Pope were revived as he courted the Emperor Charles’s support. He paid tribute to both Queen Catherine and the king, and, as a deft statesman, shrugged off the burdens of state to mingle with the court’s revelry—earning King Henry VIII’s respect as both a worthy companion and a wise counsellor. During that period, Miles Paton realized the sheer magnitude of his master’s ambition and his keen desire to secure the highest honor the world could grant—by placing himself on the papal throne, thereby becoming the master of the king he currently served. Miles wrote confidential letters to each of them regarding the Emperor’s court, all aimed at advancing Wolsey’s claim to the papal tiara that had once again been set aside. For several weeks he remained in close attendance on his master, leaving only scant time to attend to his father or the work that had drawn him to London. Sir Thomas fretted and grumbled because he was dissatisfied with his lodging; though he had found old war‑companions, he still longed for his home, the company of his wife and daughter, and was only half‑reconciled with his son serving under Wolsey—despite a good salary and being well provisioned alongside other gentlemen of his rank. Moreover, he had set his heart on replicating the royal precedent by marrying Miles to Lady Audrey, and the thought that Miles might refuse to heed his counsel on the matter troubled him deeply. He argued that they could not afford to secure a papal dispensation, so they could not legally enter into such a marriage. Again, keeping the lady and her dowry within the family would impose such a heavy cost that it would outweigh all potential benefits. Sir Thomas was hard to persuade once he had fixed his heart on a particular aim, so Master William Tyndale’s translation languished for a time, even though Miles had not forgotten his friend nor the next step awaiting once the whole New Testament was rendered into English. With this next step in mind, he once brought his father to inspect William Caxton’s still‑operational printing presses in Westminster, which were being rapidly upgraded with new type and skilled artisans from top foreign presses. They also visited a second printing press near Temple Bar, where Miles cautiously inquired about the possibility of having their book printed in London once it was ready. The Cardinal took a keen interest in the printing works and their improvements, seeing printing as a marvelous gift to learning, yet he feared it would become too widespread—no more common than sunlight and rain—so Miles was still unsure whether Wolsey would approve the English printing of the New Testament. As one of the king’s private secretaries, Miles was greeted everywhere with the utmost courtesy and had his questions answered fully—because only the cardinal had dispatched him—so he gathered ample useful information on printing costs and schedules, as well as the dimensions of the sheets, to relay to his friend at their next meeting. His inquiries ultimately showed that printing the book in a continental press would be the safest option, for Miles had inadvertently discovered that the Cardinal employed a private emissary among the printers who reported every detail to His Eminence, allowing Miles to learn of any such printing within hours. There was little doubt that there was one also at the Temple Bar printer's, so that altogether it seemed inevitable that their treasure should be printed on the continent. After a brief respite from his duties with the cardinal, Miles and his father took a barge from Westminster to Greenwich to visit Sir Harry Guildford and his family. As he anticipated, Sir Harry Guildford was found in his room at the palace, and welcomed Sir Thomas, and spoke in warm commendation of Miles. Yet Sir Thomas remained unimpressed: Miles—his son—had gone to every length to make the father's London visit pleasant and had leveraged all his influence to advance his own interests. Still, the old man cared little for such niceties, refusing to name Lady Audrey as a future wife and clutching the old grievance over the unpaid farm dues. Thus, when Sir Harry offered praise, Sir Thomas could only reply with a weary grunt of dissatisfaction. When they reached the family mansion, the old man watched how warmly the offending son was welcomed by the girls, boys, and Lady Guildford herself, and he grew silent and grim once more. He was, as expected, lavishly polite to his hostess and courteous to the young people, yet Miles could see the effort it demanded; it was no surprise that, an hour later, his father declared he must return to Westminster at once. But, father, the rowers have scarce had time to rest after their long pull—and we must wait until the tide turns," said Miles, in a tone of expostulation. They had arrived aboard one of the Cardinal’s private barges, and the men slipped away to enjoy themselves at a riverside alehouse. But the old man declared he must go back at once, and Miles was compelled to go in search of the boatmen, and ask them to have the barge in readiness the moment the tide turned. | "And we purchase the poor creatures only for their benefit; let me talk this matter over with you at my own house. I can introduce you to a welcoming home, a devout family, and the sincere fare of a British merchant. Can't I, Captain Franks?" " Can't say," growled the Captain. " Never asked me to take bite or sup at your table. I was asked to psalm‑sing once and to listen to Mr. Ward preach, but I simply don’t care for that type of entertainment. Ignoring the remark, Mr. Trail continued in a low voice: “Business is business, my dear young sir; it is simply our duty to reap the earth’s bounty in its season.” As the heir to Lady Esmond’s estate, I affirm that I am speaking to the rightful heir of that great property. The young gentleman made a bow. "— I urge you, as soon as possible, to enhance the ample resources that Heaven has bestowed upon you. "As an honest factor, I had no choice; as a prudent man, would I hesitate to speak of matters that would benefit you as well as me?" No, my dear Mr. George. " " He turned his head, tears streaming, and declared, “I’m not George; I’m Henry.” Gracious powers! what do you mean, sir? Did you not say you were my lady's heir? and is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq.——" " Hold your tongue, you fool!" Crying, Mr. Franks struck the merchant with a hard blow to his sleek sides as the young lad turned away. Don't you see the young gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes?" " What do you mean, Captain Franks, by laying your hand on your owners? Mr. George is the heir; I know the Colonel's will well enough. " " Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with his thumb to the deck. " Where?" cries the factor. " Mr. George is there!" The captain repeated his point, lifting his finger again toward the topmast—and the sky beyond. He is dead a year, sir, come next 9th of July. He would go out with General Braddock on that dreadful business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more never came back again. Every man of them was murdered as he fell. You know the Indian way, Mr. Trail?" And here the Captain passed his hand rapidly round his head. " Horrible! ain't it, sir? horrible! He was a fine, youthful man, the living embodiment of vigor, but his hair was black, now hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He was often on board the Young Rachel and would open his chests of books on deck before they were unloaded. He was a shy, silent young gentleman, a far cry from the merry, wild fellow who was always bursting with song and laughter. He was struck hard by the news and went to bed, falling into the fever that afflicts so many along the swampy Potomac; however, he began to improve during the voyage—because the journey seemed to cure them all—and, as a result, the young gentleman could not spend forever mourning a brother who died and left him a great fortune. From the moment we first saw Ireland, he has been delightfully cheerful—though at times he would step aside in his mirth, exclaiming, “I wish my dear Georgy could share this view with me; when you mentioned his name, you see, he could not bear it.” The honest captain’s eyes welled with tears as he turned toward the object of his compassion. Mr. Trail wore a mournful expression suited to the somber welcome he intended for the young Virginian, yet the latter replied brusquely, declined his offers of hospitality, and stayed in Mr. Trail’s house only long enough to drink a glass of wine and collect the money he needed. They separated on the warmest of terms, and every hand on the Young Rachel cheered from the ship’s side as their passenger slipped away. Harry Warrington and his brother repeatedly studied the English map, charting the course they would follow once they reached Home. All Americans who cherish the old country—and what gently‑nurtured Anglo‑Saxon could not?—have long rehearsed their English travels and, in their imagination, have visited the places shaped by hope, parental stories, and friends' accounts. What moves me most in the history of the quarrel that split the two great nations is the repeated use of the word “Home” by the younger toward the elder country. Harry Warrington had his chart laid out. Before London, with its dazzling temples of St. Paul’s and St. Peter’s, the grim Tower where brave men had bled from Wallace to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, and the austere façade of Whitehall where martyr Charles knelt before ascending to Heaven; before the bustling playhouses, parks, and palaces that celebrated wit, pleasure, and splendour; before the resting place of Shakespeare beneath the tall spire over the Avon, amid the sweet pastures of Warwickshire; before the sites of Derby, Falkirk, and Culloden where honour and loyalty lay fallen and might never rise again—the young Virginian brothers considered all these sights sacred, yet the most treasured was their family’s old Castlewood in Hampshire, a home whose fond memories their parents had spoken of with such affection. From Bristol to Bath, then to Salisbury, onto Winchester, and onward from Hexton to Home, they knew the route well and had mapped it countless times. We must picture our American traveler as a striking young fellow, and his sable suit only adds to his appeal. From her bar, the plump landlady—surrounded by china, punch‑bowls, stout gilded bottles of strong water, and glittering silver flagons—watched with a kindly eye as the young gentleman passed through the inn‑hall in his post‑chaise, while the obsequious chamberlain bowed him up the stairs to the Rose or the Dolphin. The elegant chambermaid offered her finest curtsy for his payment, while Gumbo in the inn‑kitchen—where the townsfolk drank their mugs of ale by the great fire—boasted of his young master’s magnificent house in Virginia and the vast fortune he was heir to. The postchaise spun the traveler through the most delightful domestic scenery he had ever witnessed. If the English countryside delights the contemporary American, he will naturally contrast its rich woods, glowing pastures, and picturesque ancient villages with the roughness of his own landscape; Harry Warrington’s own route—through Virginian swamps and forest solitude from one ordinary homestead to the next log‑house at the end of each day—must have seemed far more pleasant when he suddenly encountered the bustling, joyous, splendid scene of an English summer. And the highroad, a hundred years ago, was not that grass-grown desert of the present time. It pulsed with relentless travel and bustle, as country towns and inns teemed with life and joy. The young traveler was greeted by an array of moving scenes: a ponderous wagon jostling with bells and a slow‑moving team; a light post‑coach that had made the trip from the White Hart in Salisbury to the Swan‑with‑Two‑Necks in London in just two days; strings of packhorses still bound to the road; my lord’s gleaming gilt post‑chaise‑and‑six with outriders racing ahead; the country squire’s grand coach drawn by sturdy Flemish mares; farmers trotting to market; and a parson hurrying to the cathedral town on a dumpling, his wife riding in the pillion—all such sights and brisk people welcomed him. Hodge, the farmer’s boy, tipped off his hat while Polly, the milkmaid, bobbed a curtsey as the chaise spun across the pleasant village green, and the white‑haired children lifted their chubby faces and cheered. The church spires glimmered gold, the cottage gables blazed in the sunshine, and the great elms murmured in summer while casting violet shadows over the grass. Young Warrington never had such a glorious day, or witnessed a scene so delightful. | 0.2 | Historical fiction | Boultwood, Emma | Thackeray, W. M. | 71012 | 8123 | Boultwood, Emma_[Shawn of Skarrow]_1500_24_0.5 | Thackeray, W. M._[The Virginians]_1500_2_0.5 |
By leaving the pearl buried beneath the giant clam's mantle, he allowed it to grow imperceptibly. With each passing year the mollusk's secretions added new concentric layers. The captain alone was familiar with the cave where this wonderful fruit of nature was "ripening"; he alone reared it, so to speak, in order to transfer it one day to his dearly beloved museum. Perhaps, following the examples of oyster farmers in China and India, he had even predetermined the creation of this pearl by sticking under the mollusk's folds some piece of glass or metal that was gradually covered with mother-of-pearl. In any case, comparing this pearl to others I already knew about, and to those shimmering in the captain's collection, I estimated that it was worth at least 10,000,000 francs. It was a superb natural curiosity rather than a luxurious piece of jewelry, because I don't know of any female ear that could handle it. Our visit to this opulent giant clam came to an end. Captain Nemo left the cave, and we climbed back up the bank of shellfish in the midst of these clear waters not yet disturbed by divers at work. We walked by ourselves, genuine loiterers stopping or straying as our fancies dictated. For my part, I was no longer worried about those dangers my imagination had so ridiculously exaggerated. The shallows drew noticeably closer to the surface of the sea, and soon, walking in only a meter of water, my head passed well above the level of the ocean. Conseil rejoined me, and gluing his huge copper capsule to mine, his eyes gave me a friendly greeting. But this lofty plateau measured only a few fathoms, and soon we reentered Our Element. I think I've now earned the right to dub it that. Ten minutes later, Captain Nemo stopped suddenly. I thought he'd called a halt so that we could turn and start back. No. With a gesture he ordered us to crouch beside him at the foot of a wide crevice. His hand motioned toward a spot within the liquid mass, and I looked carefully. Five meters away a shadow appeared and dropped to the seafloor. The alarming idea of sharks crossed my mind. But I was mistaken, and once again we didn't have to deal with monsters of the deep. It was a man, a living man, a black Indian fisherman, a poor devil who no doubt had come to gather what he could before harvest time. I saw the bottom of his dinghy, moored a few feet above his head. He would dive and go back up in quick succession. A stone cut in the shape of a sugar loaf, which he gripped between his feet while a rope connected it to his boat, served to lower him more quickly to the ocean floor. This was the extent of his equipment. Arriving on the seafloor at a depth of about five meters, he fell to his knees and stuffed his sack with shellfish gathered at random. Then he went back up, emptied his sack, pulled up his stone, and started all over again, the whole process lasting only thirty seconds. This diver didn't see us. A shadow cast by our crag hid us from his view. And besides, how could this poor Indian ever have guessed that human beings, creatures like himself, were near him under the waters, eavesdropping on his movements, not missing a single detail of his fishing! So he went up and down several times. He gathered only about ten shellfish per dive, because he had to tear them from the banks where each clung with its tough mass of filaments. And how many of these oysters for which he risked his life would have no pearl in them! I observed him with great care. His movements were systematically executed, and for half an hour no danger seemed to threaten him. So I had gotten used to the sight of this fascinating fishing when all at once, just as the Indian was kneeling on the seafloor, I saw him make a frightened gesture, stand, and gather himself to spring back to the surface of the waves. I understood his fear. A gigantic shadow appeared above the poor diver. It was a shark of huge size, moving in diagonally, eyes ablaze, jaws wide open! I was speechless with horror, unable to make a single movement. With one vigorous stroke of its fins, the voracious animal shot toward the Indian, who jumped aside and avoided the shark's bite but not the thrashing of its tail, because that tail struck him across the chest and stretched him out on the seafloor. This scene lasted barely a few seconds. The shark returned, rolled over on its back, and was getting ready to cut the Indian in half, when Captain Nemo, who was stationed beside me, suddenly stood up. Then he strode right toward the monster, dagger in hand, ready to fight it at close quarters. Just as it was about to snap up the poor fisherman, the man-eater saw its new adversary, repositioned itself on its belly, and headed swiftly toward him. I can see Captain Nemo's bearing to this day. Bracing himself, he waited for the fearsome man-eater with wonderful composure, and when the latter rushed at him, the captain leaped aside with prodigious quickness, avoided a collision, and sank his dagger into its belly. But that wasn't the end of the story. A dreadful battle was joined. The shark bellowed, so to speak. Blood was pouring into the waves from its wounds. The sea was dyed red, and through this opaque liquid I could see nothing else. Nothing else until the moment when, through a rift in the clouds, I saw the daring captain clinging to one of the animal's fins, fighting the monster at close quarters, belaboring his enemy's belly with stabs of the dagger yet unable to deliver the deciding thrust, in other words, a direct hit to the heart. In its struggles the man-eater churned the watery mass so furiously, its eddies threatened to knock me over. I wanted to run to the captain's rescue. But I was transfixed with horror, unable to move. I stared, wild-eyed. I saw the fight enter a new phase. The captain fell to the seafloor, toppled by the enormous mass weighing him down. Then the shark's jaws opened astoundingly wide, like a pair of industrial shears, and that would have been the finish of Captain Nemo had not Ned Land, quick as thought, rushed forward with his harpoon and driven its dreadful point into the shark's underside. The waves were saturated with masses of blood. The waters shook with the movements of the man-eater, which thrashed about with indescribable fury. Ned Land hadn't missed his target. This was the monster's death rattle. Pierced to the heart, it was struggling with dreadful spasms whose aftershocks knocked Conseil off his feet. Meanwhile Ned Land pulled the captain clear. Uninjured, the latter stood up, went right to the Indian, quickly cut the rope binding the man to his stone, took the fellow in his arms, and with a vigorous kick of the heel, rose to the surface of the sea. The three of us followed him, and a few moments later, miraculously safe, we reached the fisherman's longboat. Captain Nemo's first concern was to revive this unfortunate man. I wasn't sure he would succeed. I hoped so, since the poor devil hadn't been under very long. But that stroke from the shark's tail could have been his deathblow. Fortunately, after vigorous massaging by Conseil and the captain, I saw the nearly drowned man regain consciousness little by little. He opened his eyes. How startled he must have felt, how frightened even, at seeing four huge, copper craniums leaning over him! And above all, what must he have thought when Captain Nemo pulled a bag of pearls from a pocket in his diving suit and placed it in the fisherman's hands? This magnificent benefaction from the Man of the Waters to the poor Indian from Ceylon was accepted by the latter with trembling hands. His bewildered eyes indicated that he didn't know to what superhuman creatures he owed both his life and his fortune. At the captain's signal we returned to the bank of shellfish, and retracing our steps, we walked for half an hour until we encountered the anchor connecting the seafloor with the Nautilus's skiff. Back on board, the sailors helped divest us of our heavy copper carapaces. Captain Nemo's first words were spoken to the Canadian. "Thank you, Mr. Land," he told him. "Tit for tat, captain," Ned Land replied. "I owed it to you. | This cape forms the extremity of Arabia Petraea, comprised between the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Acabah. The Nautilus entered the Straits of Jubal, the channel that opens into the Gulf of Suez. I distinctly observed a towering mountain, rising high between Ras‑Mohammed’s twin gulfs. It was Mount Horeb, the Sinai peak on which Moses saw God face to face. At six o’clock the Nautilus, alternating between floating and submerging, drifted some distance past Tor—located at the bay’s far end—where the waters were tinged red, an observation previously noted by Captain Nemo. Night descended upon the sea, the darkness punctuated only by the distant cries of pelicans and other nocturnal birds, the clatter of waves crashing upon the rocks, and the shrill gusts of a far‑off steamer whose noisy paddles throbbed against the Gulf’s surface. From eight to nine o’clock, the Nautilus drifted a few fathoms below the surface. My calculations suggest we were very close to Suez. Through the saloon’s panel, I could see the rocks’ base brilliantly illuminated by our electric lamp. We felt ourselves steadily drifting farther from the Straits. At a quarter‑past nine, after the vessel had surfaced, I climbed onto the platform. Eager to reach Captain Nemo’s tunnel, I could not stay still and stepped out to breathe the fresh night air. Soon, shrouded by shadows, I caught sight of a faint light, dulled by the fog, glowing about a mile from us. A floating lighthouse!" A voice from close by spoke. I turned and spotted the Captain. "It is the luminous beacon of Suez," he continued. Soon enough, we will reach the entrance of the tunnel. The entrance must be rather difficult. No, sir; for that reason I am accustomed to enter the steersman's cabin and steer our course myself. Now, if you will descend, M. Aronnax, the Nautilus is submerging beneath the waves and will not surface until we have traversed the Arabian Tunnel. Captain Nemo guided me toward the main staircase; halfway down he opened a door, crossed the upper deck, and stepped into the pilot’s cage, which—if you recall—rises at the far end of the platform. It was a six‑by‑six‑foot cabin, strikingly similar to the one the pilot used aboard steamboats on the Mississippi or Hudson. A vertically mounted wheel, situated at the center, was attached to the tiller rope that ran to the rear of the Nautilus. Four lantern ports fitted with lenticular glass into a groove of the cabin’s partition gave the wheelman full‑range visibility. The cabin was dim, but my eyes quickly adjusted, and I soon saw the pilot—a strong man—hands resting on the wheel's spokes. Outside, the sea was brilliantly illuminated by the lantern, which projected its light from the back of the cabin to the opposite end of the platform. Captain Nemo declared, “Now, let us proceed with our passage.” Electrical cables ran from the pilot’s cabin to the engine room, letting Captain Nemo transmit the ship’s heading and speed to the Nautilus at the same time. He nudged the metal knob, and the propeller’s speed instantly decreased. Silently I gazed at the towering straight wall beside which we were passing, the unyielding foundation of a vast sandy shore. We followed it in that manner for an hour, keeping only a few yards ahead. Captain Nemo kept his eyes fixated on the knob, its two concentric circles glinting in the dim cabin. With a simple gesture, the pilot altered the Nautilus’s course at every instant. I positioned myself at the port‑scuttle and gazed upon striking coral formations, zoophytes, seaweed, and fucus, their huge claws thrusting from the rock’s fissures. At ten‑fifteen, Captain Nemo himself took hold of the helm. A vast, shadow‑black corridor unfolded before us. The Nautilus plunged into the dark tunnel with daring confidence. A strange roar echoed around its hull. Those were the waters of the Red Sea, those the steep slope of the tunnel hurled violently into the Mediterranean. The Nautilus surged like an arrow down the torrent, its engines struggling to hold it back while a reversed screw churned the waves against the current. The walls of the narrow tunnel were bathed in pure, brilliant rays—straight lines and searing furrows of fire—etched by the vessel’s swift passage beneath the electric light. My heart hammered quickly against my ribs. At 10:35, Captain Nemo abandoned the helm, turned to me, and declared, “The Mediterranean!” Under the torrent’s push, the Nautilus crossed the Isthmus of Suez in less than twenty minutes. On the following day, February 12th, at dawn, the Nautilus rose to the surface. I hurried onto the platform. Three miles southward, the faint silhouette of Pelusium emerged. The torrent had swept us, carrying us from one sea straight into the next. At roughly seven o’clock, Ned and Conseil arrived to join me. "Well, Mr. Naturalist," the Canadian replied with a teasing smile, "and the Mediterranean?" We glide upon its surface, my friend Ned. What!" Conseil remarked, “this very night.” Indeed, tonight we will have crossed this impassable isthmus in just a few minutes. "I don't think so," the Canadian replied. "You are mistaken, Master Land," I insisted; "the low coast curving toward the south is the Egyptian coast." With your sharp eye, Ned, you can see the jetty of Port Said reaching out toward the sea. The Canadian listened intently, his gaze fixed and attentive. You’re absolutely right, sir—your Captain is truly first‑class. We find ourselves in the Mediterranean Sea. Good! Now, if you will, let us discuss our own modest affair, but keep it from the ears of others. I saw what the Canadian wanted, and, in any case, I thought it best to let him speak as he wished; so the three of us went to sit near the lantern, where we were less exposed to the spray of the blades. Now, Ned, we listen; what do you have to tell us? All I have to say is simple. We are in Europe, and before Captain Nemo’s caprices haul us again to the polar trenches or the Pacific Ocean, I wish to leave the Nautilus. I had no intention of restricting my companions’ freedom, yet I was certainly unwilling to abandon Captain Nemo. Thanks to him and his apparatus, I found myself daily one step closer to completing my submarine studies, while simultaneously revisiting and refining my book on submarine depths in its proper setting. Would I ever again be granted the chance to behold the marvels of the ocean? No, certainly not! I could not imagine abandoning the Nautilus before the investigation had been fully carried out. Ned, tell me honestly—are you tired of being aboard? Do you regret that fate has thrust us into Captain Nemo’s hands? The Canadian paused for a moment before responding. Crossing his arms, he said, “Frankly, I regret nothing about this journey beneath the waves.” I am glad we have accomplished it; now that it is finished, let us move on. That is my idea. It is bound to conclude, Ned. Where will we be, and when? I do not know where it will end, nor when; rather, I suppose it will end when these seas have nothing more to teach us. And what do you truly hope for? demanded the Canadian. " Circumstances may arise both now and six months from now, and we ought to profit from them. Oh!" Ned Land asked, “Where shall we find ourselves six months from now, if you don’t mind, Sir Naturalist?” Possibly China—after all, the Nautilus travels with extraordinary speed. It moves through water as swallows glide through the air, or as an express car rushes along the rails. It fears no well‑traveled seas; who can claim that it cannot outpace the coasts of France, England, or America, where such a voyage might be attempted as readily as it is here? “M. Aronnax,” the Canadian responded, “your arguments crumble at their very foundation.” You speak in the future, saying, “We shall be there!” we shall be here!' “I speak in the present: ‘We are here, and we must profit from it.’” Ned Land’s razor‑sharp arguments struck me hard, leaving me utterly humbled in that discussion. I knew not what argument would now tell in my favour. | 0.7 | Adventure stories | Verne, Gyula | Verne, Gyula | 2488 | 164 | Verne, Gyula_[20,000 Leagues Under the Seas: An Underwater Tour of the World]_1500_52 | Verne, Gyula_[20,000 Leagues Under the Sea]_1500_42_0.9 |
"It's all right over there," remarked Collins, jerking his head towards the creek. " The fronting armies are waiting for morning and battle. I suppose that when we send word to Griswold that Appleweight is in a South Carolina jail it will change the scene of operations. It will then be Governor Osborne's painful task to dance between law-and-order sentiment and the loud cursing of his border constituents. The possibilities of this rumpus grow on me, Ardmore. " " There is no rumpus, Mr. Collins," said Jerry over her shoulder. " The governor of North Carolina is merely giving expression to his civic pride and virtue. " Leaving Ardsley, they followed a dismal stretch of road until they reached the highway that connects Turner's and Kildare. " It's going to be morning pretty soon. We must get the prisoner into Turner's by five o'clock. Trot 'em up, Paul," ordered Cooke. Their spirits were high as they approached a solid stretch of road that ran straight toward Turner's, confident that nothing would prevent the prisoner’s safe arrival in jail. Publicizing that Appleweight was seized in North Carolina and shipped to a South‑Carolina jail would shield Governor Dangerfield from any hint of collusion with the border rebels, while also giving him a credible way to justify to the farmers in the hills the South‑Carolina governor’s harsh arrest of their chief. They were well into South Carolina territory now, and were jogging on at a sharp trot, when suddenly Cooke turned back and halted the wagon. " There's something coming—wait!" " Maybe Bill's friends are out looking for him," suggested Collins. " Or it may be Grissy," cried Ardmore in sudden alarm. " Your professor is undoubtedly asleep in his camp on the Raccoon," replied Collins contemptuously. " Do not be alarmed, Mr. Ardmore. " Cooke impatiently bade them be quiet. " If we're accosted, what shall we say?" he asked. " We'll say," replied Jerry instantly, "that one of the labourers at Ardsley is dead, and that we are taking his remains to his wife's family at Turner's. I shall be his grief-stricken widow. " The guards had already forced Appleweight onto the wagon’s floor, with one of them sitting on his feet to make sure he stayed still. At her own suggestion Jerry dismounted and climbed into the wagon, where she sat on the sideboard, with her head deeply bowed as though in grief. " Pretty picture of a sorrowing widow," mumbled Collins. Ardmore punched him in the ribs to make him stop laughing. To the quick step of walking horses ahead of them was now added the whisper and creak of leather. " Hello, there!" yelled Cooke, wishing to take the initiative. " Hey-O!" answered a voice, and all was still. " Give us the road; we're taking a body into Turner's to catch the morning train," called Cooke. " Who's dead?" " One of Ardmore's Dutchmen. Shipping the corpse back to Germany. " The party ahead of them paused as though debating the case. The north-bound party was a blur in the road. Their horses sniffed and moved restlessly about as their riders conferred. " Give us the road!" shouted Cooke. " We haven't much time to catch our train. " " Who did you say was dead?" " Karl Schmidt," returned Paul promptly. Ardmore's heart sank, fearful lest an inspection of the corpse should be proposed. But at this moment a wail, eerie and heart-breaking, rose and fell dismally upon the night. It was Jerry mourning her dead husband, her slight figure swaying back and forth over his body in an abandon of grief. " De poor vidow—she be mit us," called out big Paul, forsaking his usual excellent English for guttural dialect. " Who are you fellows?" demanded Cooke, spurring his horse forward. To his surprise, the horsemen drew back, and he heard a voice speak sharply, followed by the riders regrouping along the side of the road. We been to a dance at Turner's, and air goin' back home to Kildare," came the reply. " That seems all right," whispered Ardmore to Collins. " Collins muttered, “In the midst of death, we are in life,” and the words made Jerry bend over the corpse with a convulsive shudder of sorrow; to add color to their story, Paul interjected a few consolatory sentences in German. Give us the road!" commanded Cooke, and without further parley they started ahead, closing about the wagon to diminish, as far as possible, the size of the caravan. Paul kept the horses at a walk, as became their sad errand, and Jerry continued to weep dolorously. They passed the horsemen at a slight rise in the rolling road. The party bound for Turner's moved steadily forward, the horsemen huddled about the wagon, with Jerry's led-horse between Ardmore and Collins at the rear. At the top of the knoll hung the returning dancers, well to the left of the road, permitting with due respect the passing of the funeral party. One of the men, Ardmore could have sworn, lifted his hat until the wagon had passed. Then some one called good-night, and, looking back, Ardmore saw them—a dozen men, he judged—regain the road and quietly resume their journey toward Kildare. " Pretty peaceable for fellows who've been attending a dance," suggested Collins, craning his neck to look after them. Cooke turned back with the same observation, and seemed troubled. " I was afraid to look too closely at those men. They seemed rather too sober, and I was struck with the fact that they bunched up pretty close, as though they were hiding something. " " They were afraid of the corpse," remarked Collins readily. " To meet a dead man on a lonely road at this hour of the morning is enough to sober the most riotous. " " One fellow lifted his hat as we passed, and I thought——" "Well, what did you think, Mr. Ardmore?" demanded Cooke impatiently. " Well, it may seem strange, but I thought there was something about that chap that suggested Grissy. It would be like Grissy to lift his hat to a corpse under any circumstances. He has spent a whole lot of time in Paris, and besides, he never forgets his manners. " " But suppose it was Griswold," said Cooke, wishing to dispose of the suspicion, "what could he be doing out here? He hasn't Appleweight—we know that; and he has just now missed his chance of ever getting him. " They stopped to let Jerry get back on her horse, and a detective joined the conversation, suggesting that the men they had just passed were in uniform. They looked like militia to me," and as he was a careful man, Cooke took note of his remark, though he made no comment. " Supposing they were in uniform," Jerry said lightly, "they pose no threat; since we’re now in South Carolina and they aren’t part of our own forces, it would be improper for us to harass them." Let us go on, for Mr. Appleweight's widow is not anxious to miss her train back to the fatherland. " " If they were a detail of the enemy's militia, they would have held us up," declared Cooke with finality. Yet as they journeyed toward Turner's, Ardmore remained unsettled by the striking Parisian courtesy of the reveler, who lifted his hat as the corpse passed. Grissy repeatedly reminded himself that he was no fool in the slightest, yet he could not fathom why the governor‑appointed associate professor of admiralty might be riding to Kildare unless he was plotting some grand scheme. The stars paled under the growing light of the early summer dawn. Appleweight, with shoulders wearily drooping, contemplated the attending cortege with the gaze of one who sullenly accepts a condition he does not in the least understand. A few early risers saw the strange company enter and proceed to the jail; but before half the community had breakfasted, Bill Appleweight, the outlaw, was securely locked in jail in Turner Court House, the seat of Mingo County, in the state of South Carolina, and the jailer, moreover, was sharing the distinguished captive's thraldom. | She avoided discomfort at any cost, and Zelda's ideas of living had naturally been derived in a considerable degree from her aunt. Moving from the genteel quarters of Dresden, Florence, and Paris to the bleak living‑room on Merriam Street was too abrupt. A tide of loneliness washed over her as she sat beside her father in the rigid sitting‑room, beneath a cramped grate where a heap of burning anthracite glowed like a single bright ember. Behind them sat a table draped with a faded felt cloth, upon which rested a few newspapers, a magazine, a religious weekly, and an old copy of the gazette—just as he spoke to his daughter. He felt she was a stranger, intruding upon the orderly rhythm of his life. During her absence, he sometimes felt that he required her, that loneliness drove him to wish her back; yet the photographs she sent home left him unprepared for the changes she had undergone. He had expected a child to return, but there was a woman instead, whose composure and poise were disconcerting. Even her voice, her way of speaking, troubled him. She had tried to fully recount her life while she was away, to paint its world for him, but she only expanded the gulf between what he could know and what he could never fathom. For a fleeting instant, the girl realized she could not remain, that staying would push her beyond her limits. Her fingers were clasped upon her knees. She sat upright in a hard, unyielding chair that seemed to share in the house’s austere atmosphere. She yearned to escape—there was no better word for it—and fled toward her aunt or uncle. Why were only she and that stubborn old man alone here? Why had she not gone to Mrs. Forrest's to live? When the sun sank below the horizon, a sudden chill crept over the house, and a mournful wind swept through the cedar trees that brushed its side. Why did not some one come? Why did not her uncle come for her? Carriages sometimes passed by, their polished hooves thudding on the asphalt so close that the sounds seemed to reverberate from a distant corner of the bleak house. Your aunt probably informed you about your business affairs—the trusteeship. Her mind drifted elsewhere; he watched her with a sly smile as she hurriedly turned toward him. Oh, no! Though Aunt Julia never mentioned it, I recall her once telling me that I owned some property. I know nothing more—except that there is a trusteeship—whatever that is!" And she laughed. " Yes; it was indeed a very wise idea on your mother's part to provide for you. She always maintained her separate estate. She inherited part of her father's estate—perhaps you already knew that. No, I wasn’t aware, but I had always assumed that Grandfather Merriam was wealthy. “I never handled a single cent of your mother's property,” the old man continued. He did not know what Mrs. Forrest might have told Zelda. He was dropping down his plummet to measure her ignorance. Zelda knew nothing; and she cared very little. Her needs had always been met without difficulty. Mrs. Forrest indulged herself, and she had indulged Zelda. Ezra Dameron wondered what duties Rodney Merriam and Mrs. Forrest would expect him to fulfill for the girl. His role as her father had become unusual since his wife died ten years ago. After the Merriams had taken his daughter away and sent her abroad, he was curious how they would feel toward him when she re‑entered their home. The trusteeship will stay in force for the next year—until your twenty‑first birthday—unless you marry before that time. It always feels like an emergency, but I trust you will not rush to leave me. He looked at her again in his quick, nervous way. His voice showed the first hint of the whine of senility. Zelda laughed abruptly. " It's funny, isn't it?—the getting married. I honestly hadn't thought of it before. I don't know any young men. We didn't meet any men abroad except very old ones. Aunt Julia was afraid the young men weren't respectable! " " There's nothing like being careful where young men are concerned. There are many bad ones about these days. The temptations of modern life are increasing fast. A young girl can have no idea of them. " " Who's afraid?" she said, and laughed again. He forced a laugh, trying to be friendly, to blend into his daughter’s mannerisms, and to understand her as best he could. The girl lifted herself and paced the cramped room, scattering the papers around the table, then turned her gaze to the steel engravings fixed to the walls. Even after a week at home, the place still felt strange. On the table lay a plate of apples, and shortly thereafter the old man drew a knife and began to carefully pare one. She halted in the middle of her aimless pacing around the room, turning to watch him. He had ceased trying to talk to her. His hunched posture, as he peeled the apple, carried a palpable sense of pathos. She watched him silently, moved by the weight of his years, and a sudden loneliness washed over her. At first it seemed hard and difficult, but it was just homesickness—after all, this is home, and this is her father. There were things about him that moved her pity. His clothes were impeccably neat; his linen spotless, and his collar carefully turned down over a high cravat, evoking the fashion of a bygone era. His long gray hair draped over his coat, yet it was neatly brushed. Zelda moved closer and stood beside him; he lifted his gaze to meet her, offering an impersonal, martyr‑like smile. They look good, father. If you don't mind I'll get a knife and try one. It's been a long time since I ate an apple. " Drawing a plate and knife from the pantry, she took a seat beside him. A gentler impulse had taken hold of her. She owed her father honor and respect, for an old man at his age was entitled to his whims. She coaxed him into a more companionable mood than she had seen him have before. I remember, father, the odd table set that once graced this house—massive, heavy pieces decked with a striking, large floral pattern. I haven’t seen it anywhere, and I haven’t spent much time looking for it. Probably Polly knows where it is. " " To be sure. I seem to remember it. It's probably in the attic. The attic's full of things. " " I should like to explore it. I remember attics very pleasantly from my youth. There was Uncle Rodney's. He always had the most curious things in his garret. " " Yes, yes. Rodney is a very strange man. " He stared at her sharply, revealing that she had no grasp of the family’s peculiar dynamics. Julia Forrest, his sister‑in‑law, proved far more discreet than he had imagined. Regarding the attic, I'll give you the basket of keys, Zee, just as your mother left it. There is probably much rubbish that ought to be thrown away. No doubt there are things that might be given to the poor." He bowed his head with a barely perceptible gesture, as though quietly acknowledging every beatitude. Zelda took his plate and he rose and left the room. He moved lightly, his elastic stride starkly contrasting with his weathered appearance. "I'll be back in a moment," he called, heading up the stairs and soon returning with a small basket of keys. "Here they are, my daughter," he said, offering a subtle, courteous wave of his hand. Oh, so many!" She poured the keys upon the table. There were about fifty of them, varied in type and size, each bearing a small ivory tag on which its purpose was written in clear ink. Your mother was methodical to a fault, scrupulously attentive to every detail—" He shook his head, turning to the fire as though he wanted to mask any sign of feeling. She turned the keys over in her hand, a mist gathering in her eyes as she chose not to meet his gaze. A mist had come into her eyes. | 0.9 | Young women -- Fiction | Nicholson, Meredith | Nicholson, Meredith | 68275 | 65630 | Nicholson, Meredith_[The war of the Carolinas]_1500_50_0.1 | Nicholson, Meredith_[Zelda Dameron]_1500_5_0.5 |
You looked at it and put it back in the case. It’s gone, not even hidden in your pockets, yet I still remember the address. Perhaps—" and he paused. " Perhaps what?" " You handed the angry gentleman a card. Nonsense!" I returned. " Look again." From his faint smile and the subtle lift of his brow, I could tell that my valet appreciated the situation. He was gone for at least ten minutes. Meanwhile I sat motionless, growing ever more convinced that I had made one of those mistakes that could be taken in an unpleasant light. At length, impatient, I joined Alphonse in his search. It was vain. He finally faced me, draped in a coat on one arm and a pair of pantaloons on the other, all of his pockets turned inside out. Monsieur, regarding the circumstances—which are indeed worrisome—I have searched everywhere. "It’s incredible," I said, "but the night, monsieur, the storm, and the count, who was not polite." He expressed his sympathy for me and had a clear understanding of what had happened. Indeed, I gave the count—Captain Merton—his card. I repeated my point while Alphonse stood motionless, his constant sense of the comic fighting for expression against his desire to sympathize—clearly, he saw what was about to happen as the sort of socially tragic situation that ends in ridicule. I returned to my salon and sat down to contemplate the repercussions of my mistake. Admittedly, the matter could have been fixed with little effort, yet the confusion that ensued was tremendous. I need to hurry in the morning to right my mistake. Eager to be on schedule, I paid a visit to the count at about ten the next morning. He had gone out. At the Foreign Office, I once more failed to locate him. I heard that he had gone to his club for breakfast, but would be back very soon. I waited a half-hour and then tried the club. He had left. Recalling that I had promised to be home between eleven and twelve, I glanced at my watch and, to my annoyance, found that it was already nearly noon. I had hoped to anticipate the Count’s request for Merton’s seconds. I was nonetheless confident that the captain would simply dismiss any part he’d played in my misadventure, and that a brief message from me to the count would straighten everything out. Regretting the delay my futile pursuit of the count had caused, I eased my mind with a brief reflection; after calling a cab, I headed to Captain Merton’s. I was lucky enough to locate him at home. As I entered, he flung several letters onto the table and welcomed me with a cordiality that mingled refined polish with the open‑air frankness of a camp dweller. I liked him from the start; as a slight man I envied his six‑foot, well‑built frame, and was struck by the way he would snap his head back when his large blue eyes met yours with a smile. I first thought that nothing as mortifying as the absurdity of my blunder could yet have befallen this tranquil gentleman. There was therefore no occasion for haste. We talked cheerfully about home, the war, my uncle, and Paris, and just as I was about to admit my mistake with his card, he abruptly said, “I’d like you to advise me on a somewhat odd affair—if it’s not too late for advice.” At about eleven o’clock today, the Baron La Garde and Colonel St. Pierre came to see me on behalf of Count Le Moyne. The baron explained that, since a lady was involved, it would be better to suppose that we had quarried at cards. As you might imagine, I was rather surprised and asked what he meant. "He replied, in an unpleasant tone, that I should have known, since I had given my card to the Count and promised to be home between eleven and twelve." I said, “Pardon me, gentlemen, but there seems to be a mistake.” I am not acquainted with Count le Moyne, nor have I ever seen him. Regarding the card, I have not given it to anyone. Naturally, I denied him politely and quietly, even more so because the baron's manner was far from pleasant. The baron, astonished by what he was about to demonstrate, slid me my own card and asked, “Do you mean that last night in the Bois de Boulogne you did not hand Count le Moyne your card?” Now, Mr. Greville, I am sometimes short of temper, and the supplies were running low. I steadied myself and, with as much composure as possible, said, “Indeed, gentlemen, this is rather absurd.” I was at home last night. I never met or heard of your count, so please accept my unequivocal denial on his behalf. In response, the baron remarked, “It seems you are outright contradicting our principal—a man of the highest character—and we are compelled to believe you are trying to evade the consequences of insulting the count last night.” Before I could answer, the colonel, in an easy‑going manner, said that a single word captured my conduct. I interrupted, yet, to my surprise, kept myself in control. I said: 'This has gone far enough. Count le Moyne has rather imprudent friends. Someone has played a trick on both me and your principal. At all events, I am not the man.' "' “Monsieur, do you still deny it?” the colonel asked.
“Hold on a moment,” I replied; “I would not allow any man to doubt my word.” But let us be clear as to this. Do I understand that the way you’re addressing me now reflects the count’s instructions? By George! the colonel said, 'Yes.' They really believed me to be lying. I had abandoned any desire to explain or contradict, so I replied that it was all nonsense, though I had assumed the French gentlemen were courteous on such occasions. You should have seen the baron. He stands as tall as I do and must weigh 250 pounds. He flushed red and declared that unless his principal had a prior claim on me, he would immediately call me to account. I answered sweetly that there was no need for him to intervene—after all, with the Count dead, I would gladly accommodate his friend. He did seem a bit amazed. " I was about to comment on this queer story when Merton interjected, “Pardon me, but I must first tell you all; then you may kindly share your thoughts on this amazing performance.” The little colonel, whose lean frame and flushed cheeks resembled a boiled shrimp, picked up the conversation, and a nearby fellow—an idiot in the truest sense—declared: “My friend the baron will, without a doubt, postpone the pleasure of meeting monsieur; and now that monsieur is no longer indisposed to satisfy our principal, and, as we understand, declines to explain or apologise, yet does in fact admit—by his willingness to meet our friend—what he seemed to deny—may we know when monsieur’s seconds will come to serve us?” Here is my card.' " The little man was posing beautifully. I set the card on the table and said, “Gentlemen, understand that I have not withdrawn my statement; if the Count insists you think I’m lying, that alone ought to be enough to justify a quarrel.” The young man replied that the count could not act any other way. "Very good," I said. "Do not interrupt this charming story, Mr. Greville; let me go on." There is more of it and better. " My colonel then said, “We shall expect to hear from you—and, by the way, I understand from Monsieur’s card that he is an American.” I said, 'Yes; captain Second Infantry.' "' Ah, a soldier—really! In the army of the Confederation, I presume. We will be delighted to meet Monsieur’s friends. What!' I said; 'does monsieur the colonel wish to insult me? I am of the North.' "' A thousand pardons!' "' No matter. I will contact you shortly, or as soon as I have secured gentlemen to act as my seconds. That seemed to satisfy them until I pointed out that, to save time as the challenged party, I could simply say that my friends would insist on the rifle at thirty paces. But monsieur, that is unusual, barbarous!' said the little man. | My Pearl told me," and he related the defeat of the blacksmith. " Rene said, “Insolent.” No, the man was certain that he had a mission. I would like to borrow his conscience for a week or two to see how that feels; and, as for non‑resistance, can you keep a secret? I? Why not? What is it?" He was curious. While they conversed beside the river, Rene watched his flat stones bounce across the water. As the saying goes in Nancy Skyrin’s collection of sixty‑five tales, once upon a time a man named Schmidt entered the dining room, settled quietly by an open window, and read while the river breeze swirled around him. It could have happened on the second day. At that very moment, a Quaker man who had recently been visiting often sat alone on the porch step, a proper young fellow dressed very neatly in gray. A maid sat close by. From the river emerged a small god, embraced by every religion, who tempted the young man. The man inside found himself bored with his book. Rene set down his skip‑stone, turned, and said, “Mon Dieu, you did not listen?” Did he not? He had listened to the talk in the book, yet he did not share it with them. It amused him more. For a brief moment, the maid did not seem greatly displeased. She didn't appear upset. No. And then that friend, transformed into a lover, approached matters brusquely—as you say—and set out on a venture, spurred by the mischievous little devil known as Cupid. The man who listened missed it, yet it seems likely she was kissed, for a resounding smack was heard; recognizing the flagrant breach of non‑resistance, he resumed his reading, and the Quaker departed, twice wounded. Do you like my story, Friend de Courval? No, I do not." He was flushed with anger. I told you that I lacked any conscience. I trust you based on my own word. Why didn't you kick him? I grant you the privilege. Come. "I hate your story," he laughed spitefully despite his rage, "your conscience needs a bath." Perhaps." They descended to the boat, the German still laughing. What amuses you?" " Nothing. Nothing amuses more than nothing. I should have served as a diplomat in Love’s court. He wondered to himself, “Is this good for the children?” Here is another tangle, and should anything go wrong, three melancholy hearts appear. D——the Jacobin cur! I should take his life. That would settle matters. De Courval saw no sign of his enemy for many days. Schmidt, who held a vast portfolio of houses, mortgages, and valuable ground rents, was deeply occupied. Although foreign war loomed and the parties raged, the city remained prosperous, and the rapid rise in chariots, coaches, and chaises was so remarkable it attracted attention. House rents climbed, while the affluent of the vibrant district drank, danced, gambled, and raced horses along the strip we still call Race Street. Wages were high. The vast expanse of land exuded confidence, and speculation persisted—poor people gambled in lotteries, while the wealthy pursued impossible canal projects that never brought water. On August 6 of that grim 1893, Uncle Josiah came to take the Pearl away for a visit, and, as he was ever eager to deliver bad news, informed Schmidt that a malignant fever had claimed a child of Dr. Hodge and three others. It had come from the Sans Culottes, a privateer, or from damaged coffee that had been brought to him from an unknown source. The following day, Dr. Redman, president of the College of Physicians, concluded that the illness was the same disease that struck in 1762—the yellow plague. Schmidt listened in alarm. By the end of August, three hundred people had died, and nearly every new case was fatal. On August 20, Schmidt was absent for an entire day. After he returned that evening, he declared, “I have rented a house on the hill above the Falls of Schuylkill.” We move out to-morrow. I know this plague. They call it “El vomito” in the West Indies. Mrs. Swanwick protested. " "No," he said; "I must do as I wish." You have taken care of me through sickness and health over the past five years. It's my turn now. The disease will spread along the waterfront. You will not be safe for an hour. As always, she acquiesced to his wishes, and the next day they were comfortably settled in the countryside. Business ground to a halt as if by mutual consent, and the wealthier families—unless they had already departed for the countryside—begun to flee. A sweeping exodus and a mounting death toll struck the once‑cheerful, thriving city. By September 10, every rural farm was teeming with fugitives, and tents hosted thousands along the Schuylkill and beyond. Eventually, roughly twenty‑three thousand fled, and whole families pitched camp beneath the open air in every weather. Although more could have left the city, the shops were closed, money stopped circulating, and even the middle class had no means to flee. Moreover, there were no open refuges, as all nearby towns refused to welcome even those who could afford to leave. Hence many remained, even though they would have gladly left. Madame de Courval was in Merion, and Margaret had just rejoined her mother, brought there by her uncle. He had visited the city, where he ran into Matthew Clarkson, the mayor, deep in the midst of his official affairs. He would not discuss business. Terrible time," said Josiah—"terrible! No one will engage in business. Did he feel compassion for the dying and the dead? Schmidt harbored doubts and quietly pressed him for clarification. The doctors did not agree, and Rush bled everyone. Josiah had no intention of returning. Half a dozen of the notes he kept had been protested—a terrible calamity, yet a tidy excuse for debtors. Mr. Wynne had shut his counting‑house and was away on the Ohio, leaving De Courval to brood while the French legation moved to the country, the cabinet fled to Germantown, and the President had already gone to Mount Vernon for his summer rest. After Josiah’s visit, Schmidt left a letter on Mrs. Swanwick’s table and rode off to town without bidding farewell. The widow looked at Rene, whispered, “Look at that, my friend,” and then burst into tears. He reread the letter, which began: “Dear Madam, the city is short of nurses, in need of help, and lacking money.” Girard sent me a note. Wetherill once said he possessed the boldness of a penny, and not the feebleness of a dollar. I go to help him, though I do not know for how long, and will do whatever I can. I love my friend Rene. I will unlock the doors of your house. I have taken possession of the key. I shall write as soon as I am able. I leave my money in my desk. Use it. I owe a debt that no amount of money could ever repay. I remain, as always, your obedient and humble servant, J. S. No one bothered to carry any letters. Very few would ever open those letters from the city. The airborne men and women recounted terrifying tales. And now September had come. Two weeks had passed with no word coming from Schmidt. The National Gazette had come to a halt, and the slanderer Freneau was gone. Only one newspaper continued to be printed, and the exodus persisted: everyone who could fled. At last De Courval could no longer tolerate it. He had no horse, so he set off on foot to visit his mother in Merion, keeping his intention from Mrs. Swanwick. He learned that Wynne was still on the Ohio, ignorant of the extent of the calamity at home. “Mother,” he said, “once again I must venture into danger.” Mr. Schmidt has headed to the city to tend to the ill. We have gone two weeks without hearing from him. I can no longer endure it. I must go and find out what has become of him. "So, my son, why would you risk your life for a man you know nothing of?" When you had previously said it was a call to duty, I bade you go. I won’t. Mother, there was a time when we survived on that man's generous bounty. What!" she cried. " Yes. I was able to do it thanks to the good fortune of saving him from drowning. I kept that from you. No, certainly not. He briefly recounted his rescue of the German. I must find out whether he is well. He is more than merely my friend. | 0.7 | Historical fiction | Mitchell, S. Weir (Silas Weir) | Mitchell, S. Weir (Silas Weir) | 30585 | 32942 | Mitchell, S. Weir (Silas Weir)_[Die Technik des Dramas]_1500_4_0.6 | Mitchell, S. Weir (Silas Weir)_[Observations on Mount Vesuvius, Mount Etna, and Other Volcanos]_1500_34_0.8 |
For your own sake you will tell nobody that Edward Vernon met you and—said anything that he ought not to have said. Besides, if you intended to ruin me with her, she would not believe you at all, and even if it ever came to that, I wouldn’t mind. It would be emancipation—ending my status as a slave chained to a woman. If I lost in one way, I should gain in another. "But I’m safe with you," he said with a laugh. "I’m free to irritate you, to outrage you as much as I please, and you won’t complain. So in that case, why shouldn’t I take it out on you?" he cried, turning fiercely upon her. Hester was so startled that she could not hold back the violent indignation and offense of her initial impulse. She was overwhelmed with pity and horror. " Cousin Edward," she said, "you do not mean all that. You did not come here to insult me. You must have had some other thought. You seem deeply unhappy, troubled, and distressed to be speaking in this way. It originates from you, bearing no reference to me. With a laugh, he said, “Oh yes, it’s something about you.” Then after a pause, "But you have some insight all the same. No. The answer is simple: hiding behind that smile, he blurted out, “It’s money, Hester—money is what we all want.” If you had it, you would not marry Harry as Old Rule did; and if I had it, I clearly must have it, said Edward, breaking off abruptly. I can't wait. " Hester went home, very bewildered and outraged by everything he said, yet feeling more sorrowful than angry. He did not answer her plea for trust, but she was certain she was right: it was a troubled, miserable heart that had driven his words, not merely wounded feelings about her. She was uncertain whether he had understood what she’d said about Harry or whether it had even reached his mind; nevertheless she went home, feeling even more miserable and preoccupied than she ever had before. Had she not, too, drawn the same conclusion from her own experiences within the Vernonry—an environment steeped in ingratitude, unkindness, and all forms of uncharitableness? She returned home slowly, giving no thought to Mildmay Vernon's squinting from his corner or to the Miss Ridgways waving from the window. Harry then had not come home with her. " I knew he wasn’t such a fool," the male observer mused to himself, as the sisters burst into laughter and carried on chatting in bright gaiety for a while. Harry Vernon think of that girl! of course he did not. Who would? "She was brought up with such manners, and her hair was nearly red," they said. WALKS AND TALKS. " Captain Morgan said, “They tell me you’re truly worthy of congratulations, Hester.” She met him on his evening walk, and both his presence and manner conveyed a profound despondency—a somber aura and frail air that were far from usual for an old man. She had not gone with him for several days, and he may have felt abandoned. Hester’s first act was to guide his hand into her arm. You are tired," she said. " Not very. I am a silly old fellow and always go too far. I’ve been thinking of you, my dear—if there’s anything to congratulate you on, I don’t think so—said Captain Morgan. What about?" " If anything of such importance had happened, you would have come and told me, Hester. I am glad you see that at last. But yes, there is something to congratulate me upon. Nothing did happen. Is not that a great deal to say? For I was tempted, sadly tempted. " " My dear, I don't understand that. " Hester laughed. " Captain Morgan, you’re wise and well‑informed, yet you were never a girl—and certainly not a poor one. I would have loved to bring my mother back to her lovely home and introduce Catherine—she paused, feeling a little embarrassed. What of Catherine?" he said. " Oh, not much—they were, perhaps, when they were young—on different sides. My mother has come down, and Cousin Catherine has gone up. I should like to have put the balance straight. " " To bring Catherine down, and put your mother——" "No, Captain Morgan. Catherine is always good when she is with you. I think I almost like her then. "I would never harm her," Hester said, lifting her head, "if I possessed the power to do so." She despises each of us, perhaps because we all consent to partake in her bread. I would not, you know, if I could help it. " " I know you are ungenerous, Hester, in that respect. " " Ungenerous! Well, never mind, there are more kinds of ungenerosity than one. I am going in with you to tell Mrs. Morgan. " " I’m not sure," the old captain said, "though it’s a wretched piece of self‑denial that I want you to come with me tonight." Hester opened her great eyes wide. " Why!" she said. It was the only house in the world that she felt entitled to. "That's nonsense, however," the old man said, "of course you must meet." We have got our grandson, Hester. " " I heard somebody had come, but I thought it was a gentleman. I did not know you had any—children—except little Mary." " We have none in this world, but would my wife be what she is if she had never had a child? We all have our disabilities, my love. I have never been a young girl, and you have never been an old person. They both laughed. Hester, with the easily-recoverable cheerfulness of youth, spoke in tremulous tones that carried as much pathos as mirth. This is the son of my daughter," he said. " She has been long dead, poor girl—happily for her. We generally don’t talk about them unless there’s some business concerning them that needs to be settled. My wife and I long ago went back to the honeymoon stage. We have each lived for the other, and we’re grateful to share that life. Children are very strange, my dear. " " Are they?" said Hester, with an awe which she could scarcely understand. " Very strange. I was dependent on you for a long time, then independent afterward—yet, unlike you, I cannot understand what I must do with them. "Perhaps the long life we have lived is itself a penalty." "I have a theory," said the old captain, smiling, "that after turning seventy, when one has lived out their life, a new one begins." And it is quite different. It’s a shame we can’t restore our aging bodies—from eyes and ears to legs and everything else. It would be a very interesting experiment. " " Are they like the people who discovered the elixir of life, or like the Wandering Jew? With curiosity mingled with pity, tenderness, and a twinge of disapproval, the girl spoke to humour him, thoughtfully pondering every word as youth absorbs the whims of age. Far from the Wandering Jew, his life flowed uninterrupted and was guided by a single purpose, mused Captain Morgan, delighted to indulge his favorite pastime. I miss a great deal within the narratives of those who acquire the elixir. They may renew their lives but not themselves. There is one I recollect at this moment, St. Leon. Of course you have never read St. Leon. He transforms into a striking young man, becoming the rival of his son—who, unsurprisingly, does not know him. But the old fellow knows him. He is an old fellow despite his elixir, and the soul within him remains unchanged. That is not my point of view. " The old man straightened, strode confidently and, buoyed by his enthusiasm, led Hester along beside him instead of leaning on her. No," he repeated, "that is not at all my point of view. The bodies keep old, the minds get—different. I have shaken off my old burdens. I no longer take responsibility for those who once belonged to me. They don't belong to me any longer. They are labouring along in the former life. I have started in the new. " " But Mrs. Morgan?" said Hester, with a quaver in her voice. | They would rather you were your sister's head nurse with all the trouble, and without any pay. Roland has taken me under his wing, and I no longer need to work for a living, yet our relationship is far from cheerful, so I wish I could make a change. We must all think of ourselves you know. " " "My dear," the old lady whispered in a hushed tone, "that's truly true in one way." It is very true, I think, in every way. I would feel happy if Roland spent his evenings at home the way Dickens’ Tom Pinch did with his sister. But Roland was not at all like Tom Pinch, so when I arrived I told him, “You should not change your life for me.” Because at times I’m home by myself all day, and when he goes out to dinner or has other evening engagements, I’m left alone for the entire night. If he were to marry, it would mean the end of my existence. So, you see, grandmother, no matter where I am, it feels natural for me to desire my own opportunity. How old are you?" said the captain abruptly. " Emma looked up at him and said, “I’ll be twenty‑three by Christmas.” She wondered why he had asked—was he judging her to be either older or younger than her years, and did he consider it odd that she was still unmarried? During my time with Elinor, I was deliberately kept out of sight," she admitted, her voice tinged with a half‑hearted apology. She had not had her "chance" as she had always wished to have. She felt poorly treated in this life, being the youngest of seven. She was shuffled from one married sister to another, each hoping she would prove useful. Everyone urged Emma to “come out,” but no one took any effort to make it happen. She had to scramble for a very cheap dress and coax Elinor into taking her to a small local gathering, thereby, as it were, opening the gates of society. As soon as she could declare herself “out,” Emma made the idea of securing a chance to make friends and receive invitations a constant focus. But she had few prospects, and Elinor never dedicated herself to her younger sister. She was still young enough to amuse herself, yet she never considered putting someone as insignificant as Emma at the center of her attention. So that she had never been allowed to have much of a "chance." Emma had not much experience of the world. Of the many novels she had read—which served as her guides to life—a great many focus on young ladies whose entrance into a ballroom would cause every man present to metaphorically fall to his knees. She was familiar with countless fictional evening gatherings where the destinies of young men and women were decided. The smallest dance was portrayed as a moment of unity for those who had never been more divided. Although Emma had yet to make an impression at the modest gatherings she’d attended, she believed that such acclaim awaited her, especially in the new town of Redborough, where she would finally meet her destiny at some dance among unfamiliar faces. Given the circumstances, it was natural that she wasted no time declaring her confidence in securing an invitation to any gathering likely to lead to something like Ellen Merridew's dancing teas. She had come down to Redborough, ready to be a cousin to everyone. While Roland had taken pains to clarify that Catherine Vernon's supposed cousins were not actually related to her, she chose to ignore that fact and approached the new setting with a warm, congenial spirit, embracing every Vernon as if she were a close relative. Among them all, nothing seems more likely than the discovery of her destiny. She meant no harm to anybody. It would certainly do no harm for any young man who falls in love with her to marry her, thereby making him happy. She felt most strongly the supreme necessity of marrying for her own part. She didn't hide her feelings on this matter, and she felt no need to conceal them from her grandparents. Everything was involved in it. Roland assumed responsibility for her, gave her a home, and ensured she had little to do yet enough to be comfortable. Emma had always been raised to view everything strictly through a practical lens. She had been taught that she had no entitlement to anything, and that it was only through her brothers’ and sisters’ generosity and charity that one after another would offer her a temporary home. Despite her comfort around Roland, she wondered what would happen if he were to marry. Emma envisioned the comfort of owning a home, marrying a husband, and earning a steady income as the crowning achievement of her future. She would not have been ashamed to say it if needed; at balls, parties, picnics, and social gatherings alike, a young woman could suddenly secure all those good things in a single moment by simply looking pretty and being agreeable. She instantly resolved that she would do whatever it took to earn an invitation to Mrs. Algernon Merridew’s Thé Dansantes, as if even heaven and earth itself would have to be moved for her to attend. She would not take, she said to herself, any denial. She would see all of Redborough’s inhabitants there, among whom surely there were individuals of the very class upon which Emma’s fate depended. As she spread out what was necessary with calm confidence, her grandparents listened with stunned silence. Emma was knitting all the time in the German style, her fingers moving with a delicate, swift motion, while she never looked at the work. She spoke slowly, her tone exuding unquestioned certitude and pragmatic simplicity, until the two old men—each with their own penchant for fancy and sentiment—took their thunder and fell silent. Emma spoke in a saintly simplicity, as if she knew nothing beyond those solid, primitive foundations—no sentiment or fancy existed to her. Though she was not as handsome as her brother, something remarkable about her appearance—particularly her pale, almost colorless eyes—captivated many observers. Her hair was dark, her features sufficiently good. The most unusual feature about her was her eyes—so pale that sometimes they seemed almost colorless. It wasn’t a thing of beauty, but its bizarre and unusual nature drew admirers to Emma. But it was only in that specific instance—right then, not in her thoughts or mind—that anything was truly out of place. Well?" The old captain said to his wife, after gently yawning over her work and preparing for bed, that Emma rose at half‑past ten with a smile, kissed them both, and asked if she could have her candle. I must not keep you out of bed," she said, her look a quiet but innocent form of complacent consideration, fixed firmly on her own narrow horizon where everything that mattered to her was in the foreground. Mrs. Morgan avoided her husband’s gaze in a manner she had used when Roland was a visitor. She has not been well brought up, poor thing!" the old lady said. " She has had no one to care for her, and Rowley, she is our very own flesh and blood. That's the wonderful thing," the captain said, "Katie's child! My dear, I forgo it; there seems to be neither reason nor sense in it. I cannot think what the Lord can mean. " " Oh, hush, Rowley—nothing, nothing that is not good. " " One would say—that there must be just a crowd of souls ready to put into the new little bodies, and that one must slip down before the other that ought to come;—like that vile cad, you know, that slipped into the pool of Siloam before the poor fellow that had no servant could shuffle down. | 0.8 | Young women -- Fiction | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant | 48197 | 48198 | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant_[Hester: A Story of Contemporary Life, Volume 1 (of 3)]_1500_44_0.4 | Mrs. (Margaret) Oliphant_[Hester: A Story of Contemporary Life, Volume 2 (of 3)]_1500_24_0.7 |
"Pardon, milor'! If milor' will enter, I will inform Madame. Madame has said she will receive milor'. " Roxhythe was led into a spacious hall overlooking the courtyard. After a few moments the lackey returned. " "If Milor' will deign to follow me," he said, and he led Roxhythe up the grand staircase and across the hall into Madame's private salon. The Duchess rose as he entered, extending her hand. I have been expecting you, my lord. " Roxhythe bowed, carrying her fingers to his lips. If he ever bowed to a woman, it was Henrietta Stuart, Duchess of Orléans. I am honoured, Madame. " She beckoned him toward a chair and gestured for her lady‑in‑waiting to leave the room. The lady went out, gracefully. " Sit down near me! _ C'est cela! Please tell me, did you recognize my dame d'honneur? Roxhythe frowned. " Was she with you at Dunkirk, Madame?" " And in London. You do not remember?" " On the contrary. Mademoiselle de Kéroualle. His Majesty conceived a liking for her. " Madame's great eyes scanned his face. " Mademoiselle yearns to become part of the court at Whitehall. Roxhythe's lips twitched. " I see. Well, you have selected a fitting envoy. So I think. Charles will permit it?" " No doubt he will be delighted. " Madame had charming dimples. She showed them now. " He is a sad man," she said. " Poor Charles!" The dimples vanished. " Well, M. Colbert de Croissy informs us that His Majesty is considering the matter. Roxhythe remarked that he admired M. Colbert’s meticulous honesty. Has His Majesty not yet made a decision? By no means. If certain conditions are met, he will give the matter his full and serious consideration. Ah!" Madame pulled a cushion into place. " Go on, Roxhythe." With great deliberation, my lord chose and relished a comfit. He then snapped the box shut and set it aside. Madame, please forgive me for tiring you, but I would like to come to an understanding. You'll permit me to go back a little. In February, as you know, M. Colbert was granted an audience at Whitehall. Present were His Majesty, His Grace the Duke of York, Sir Thomas Clifford, and I. Colbert presented us with a scheme so elegantly worded that it was the most exquisite I had ever heard. Another aspect I admire about M. Colbert is his skill in employing vague language. The proposition he unfolded was painted in a hopeful hue, favoring England. The only point that left us uncertain was France. His Majesty has long been, and continues to be, eager to discern how the alliance will benefit France. Did M. Colbert not tell you?" evaded Madame. " M. Colbert was incredibly astute, save for a single exception. That was his estimation of King Charles. He refused to credit him with any wit, Madame. M. Colbert knows that His Majesty is very wise. He did not intend to flatter him by revealing that knowledge. He spoke with dignified words, yet he failed to specify exactly what France demands of England. Perhaps he assumed His Majesty was astute enough to surmise it. It may be so. Yet, Madame, it is not King Charles’s custom to sign treaties merely on supposition. Roxhythe, did I not tell you myself? Why recall all this?" " Madame," he answered, bowing. " I've always thought you were destined to become a politician. You also gave me hazy explanations and polite words. I want clear, straight talk—that’s why I bring it up. Until now you’ve been unwilling to speak frankly. She sat motionless, twisting the cushion’s tassel around her finger. You are very bold, my lord. " " Your pardon, Madame, no. Rather, it is you and King Louis who are bold enough to try to swindle my master. Her irrepressible smile peeped out. " I think perhaps you are right, Roxhythe. I will be more explicit. " Again he bowed. " King Louis is at war with Holland. At any instant, he might be compelled to wage war against Spain. France is powerful enough to easily finance these wars. But ..." Madame looked up. "... She must be reassured that England will not take Holland's side in the conflict. That might—I say might, Roxhythe—turn the scale. Louis is cautious. He prefers not to risk defeat. So he seeks to bring about this treaty. You know all this. " " Yes, Madame, but I would have preferred to hear it spoken by your own lips. I presume that a war with Spain would only arise if the Spanish king died. That is so. Louis holds this matter very dear. So I apprehend. Now, M. Colbert spoke of wars with an engaging, airy tone. He told us that King Louis would demand England’s aid in these wars. Does this relate to a potential conflict with Spain? Of course it does. " " I wonder whether King Louis ever paid any attention to the Triple Bond. Why?" " If he had examined the bond carefully, he would have seen that England pledged to keep Spain sovereign and unharmed. He knows that. " " Yet he proposes this?" " Roxhythe, this entire treaty breaches the Triple Bond! Why cavil at that one point?" " That one point, Madame, is direct. The remainder is ambiguous and could be regarded as a breach. This is too positive. " " Do you wish it to be excluded from the treaty? I do. King Charles is indifferent to whether or not France usurps the Spanish throne. However, it is possible that Clifford and Arlington will not see eye to eye with His Majesty on that point. Could you avoid using one of those vague terms, Madame? To leave a loop-hole for Charles? Roxhythe, Roxhythe!" " I simply ask that you avoid naming any specific conflict. You may keep it as opaque as you wish, but please consider the scruples of Messieurs Clifford and Arlington. They must understand what Louis has in mind. They know, yes. But they can turn a blind eye to the obvious as long as it isn’t made too evident. Her laughter bubbled over. " How wise you are, Roxhythe! I will tell King Louis. Is that all you want with me?" " I worry that I'm intruding on your time, Madame. It is not all. There are two more points. " She sighed. " Let us have the first. " " The first point, Madame, concerns the issue you have, I apologize, consistently been avoiding. You claim that King Louis wishes to promote the Catholic faith within England. He also desires England to assist him in subduing the provinces. The two are not incompatible," said Madame. Roxhythe smiled a little. " Are they not, Madame? I’m sure you’ll agree that they cannot be achieved simultaneously. Madame fidgeted with her gown, her fingers trembling as she twitched it. Roxhythe, I've had enough of this topic. And I, Madame. Therefore I wished to have the question settled. His Majesty requires that the advancement of Catholicism in England come before any war with the Dutch. Yes, Roxhythe. King Louis stipulates that conflict with the Dutch must come first. I am sorry. May I state my case?" " Please do. " " Simply put: by restoring Catholicism to England, King Charles consolidates his position. He could then safely wage war against Holland. If he takes this step now, the Houses will erupt in uproar, the compact may be exposed, and the scheme could even fail. Madame looked up. She scanned Roxhythe's face thoughtfully. " “My lord, you have known my brother for years.” I have had that honour, Madame. " " I, too, have known him for many years. Yes, Madame?" " Yes, Roxhythe. I know he is astute, I see he wishes to avoid war with Holland, and I also perceive that his pursuit of Catholicism serves as a smokescreen for King Louis and possibly a concession to my brother James’ reservations. King Charles can manipulate and deceive his Parliament with impressive ease. Am I right?" " Not entirely, Madame. My argument still stands. " " Because of James?" " No. It is King Charles his wish. " Madame bit her lip. She seemed to consider. " Am I to deliver that message to King Louis? I would be very much obliged if you would, Madame. I think I will do it, Roxhythe. And we shall see. Is that all?" " I am very tiresome, Madame. There is still the second point. " Suddenly her gravity left her. She threw out her hands, laughing. " I know what is coming now!" she despaired. " Mordieu, I'll never act intermediary again! The price!" Roxhythe did not smile. " An all important question, Madame. " She folded her hands. " Proceed." " M. Colbert—I believe I've already told you how much I admire his vagueness. Chut!" she reproved him. " I thought so. | "One of those timber wolves," said Albert to himself, "and he has scented the blood of the beaver. " He thought of the wolf no longer until a few minutes later, when another howl rang out, followed by two more. Furthermore, they were considerably closer. Now, I wonder what they're after?" thought Albert. He kept walking at a steady pace, until a long, ferocious whine—not a howl—pierced the air from behind him. Albert glanced back and, beneath the trees where the snow was lighter, saw a dozen leaping figures. He immediately identified the familiar menace—the timber wolves. Now, I wonder what they're after?" He repeated his words, and then, as the whole pack suddenly let out a fierce, murderous howl, he realized it was his own voice. Albert, ever armed—no boy ever stepped out without a rifle or revolver—felt the chill of cold seep into every vein. They were neither the common prairie wolves nor the ordinary wolves of the East and Middle West, but the great timber wolf of the Northwest— the largest and fiercest of the canine tribe. He had grown used to timber wolves skulking nearby, but now they surged straight toward him, driven by hunger. He realized why they were on the brink of attacking him. They struggled to capture only a modest amount of large game in the valley, and starvation drove them onward. He looked again and looked fearfully. They seemed monstrous for wolves, and their long, yellow‑gray bodies swelled with raw power. Teeth and eyes alike were gleaming. Albert barely knew what to do first. Should he dash into the deepest snow, hoping the wolves would sink and be unable to catch him? In his haste he could have tripped over the unwieldy snowshoes, and then everything would have been over. Yet it must be tried. He could see no other way. Albert, almost unconsciously, prayed for composure and discernment, and it was fortunate that his recent experiences had instilled in him both courage and resourcefulness. He pivoted instantly toward the wide, clear expanse beyond the trees, where a deep sheet of snow spread several feet across, and he launched into long, soaring strides on his snowshoes. Behind him surged a pack of immense, ferocious brutes, snapping and snarling, howling and whining—a chilling chorus that sent shivers racing up and down the boy’s spine. He realized the deep snow slowed them to a crawl, stalling their progress. The open ground and deep snow stretched straight before him beside the lake, widening until it opened to the mountains that housed Castle Howard. Seeing the clear trail unfold before him, Albert’s hopes rose—only to crumble with cruel speed when he glanced back. "Although the snow was deep, the wolves closed in on him." Occasionally, the wolves seemed woefully incapable of supporting their own weight, yet they still managed to more than make up for the ground they had lost. As soon as Albert spotted the wolf, he instantly declared it the pack’s leader—both for its command over the others and its monstrous size. Even amidst the danger, he wondered how a wolf could grow so large and possess such long teeth. Yet, even in the face of grave danger, the boy maintained his composure. If the wolves were gaining ground, he had to halt their advance. He spun on his snowshoes, steadied himself for a moment, and fired straight at the massive leader. He raised the rifle’s barrel, prompting the wolf to dart aside, yet the bullet fell on a second wolf just behind him. Immediately, some of the remaining wolves rushed on the wounded brute, devouring it, while the rest—after a brief hesitation—continued their pursuit of Albert. Yet the boy had taken the lead, and for a while he felt the repeating rifle would encircle him in a protective circle of steel. He could hold them back for a while with bullet after bullet, but that would not be enough to stop the final rush when it came. Albert looked longingly ahead. Rising above the glittering expanse of white and silver clouds, he caught sight of a pale ribbon of blue smoke—and instantly realised it was drifting from their cabin. If only he could be tucked behind those sturdy log walls! A hundred wolves, each larger than the chief, might tear at them in vain. And perhaps Dick, too, would come! He felt that together, they would have little to fear. The wolves let out a fierce, whining howl again, proving that they had closed in on the fleeing boy. He spun around and fired—once, twice, thrice, four times—shooting as rapidly as he could, every bullet aimed straight into the mass of the pack. He couldn’t tell whether he’d killed or merely wounded them, but the wolves’ hideous snapping and snarling filled the air, and he watched dark teeth flash against the raw flesh. Albert kept running, and the feather of blue smoke grew larger and drew nearer. But was it near enough? Once again, the wolves’ guttural howls curled tightly behind him. All these diversions were only temporary. Regardless of how many were killed or wounded, or how many paused to feast on the dead and injured, enough was always left to keep the chase. The pursuit had also drawn reinforcements from the hidden coverts of the woods and bushes. Albert realized that none of his shots had struck the pack’s leader. The yellow‑gray giant hovered near him, confronting Albert with a demon wolf that seemed impossible to kill. He would try again. He wheeled and fired. The leader, as before, darted to one side, and a less‑fortunate wolf behind him was struck by the bullet. Albert fired two extra rounds, then pivoted and resumed his flight. However, the prolonged run, the heightened excitement, and his weakened nerves resulted in the fatal misstep. The toe of one snowshoe snagged on the heel of the other, and as a shout rang out, he toppled. The huge gray leader leapt at the fallen boy, and as its body stalled for a fleeting instant in midair before it began to fall, a rifle cracked and a bullet struck its throat, severing the jugular vein and exiting the back. The wolf’s body collapsed lifelessly onto the snow, and the hunter who had taken the shot hurried forward, shouting and firing again. It was fortunate that, some time after Albert had departed, Dick had decided to head out for a modest hunt, and likewise fortunate that, in addition to his rifle, he had taken a double‑barreled shotgun, thinking he might spot some winter wild fowl flying over the snow‑blanketed, ice‑coated lake. His first rifle shot killed the pack’s leader, the second took down another, the third proved equally lucky, the fourth likewise, and still sprinting he remembered the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He steadied the rifle in an instant and discharged a spray of stinging rounds at the pack. Previously each bullet had taken a single wolf, leaving the rest untouched, but now there was a perfect shower of hot little pellets. These timber wolves, big, fierce, and ravenously hungry, were more than they could bear. They turned and fled into the woods, letting out broken, defeated howls. Albert was painfully righting himself when Dick offered his hand and rushed the task. Albert had believed himself lost, yet it was hard to accept that he had not vanished into the master wolf’s throat. His nerves strained to the breaking point, and he hovered on the cusp of collapse. “Thank you, Dick, old boy,” he said, relief flickering in his voice. Had you not come at that time, I wouldn’t be here. Dick answered grimly, “No, you wouldn’t.” Those wolves eat fast. “Lo, Al, behold the monstrous sovereign of the wilderness!” "Have you ever seen a wolf like that?" On the snow, the great leader sprawled on his side, a full seven feet long from the tip of his nose to the base of his stubby tail. No wolf like him had ever been placed in a cage, and it was indeed rare to find one so large, even in the mountains south of the very far north. “That cut will fetch a good price,” Dick said, “and we’ve got more, but before we begin taking them off, you’ll need to brace yourself, Al.” You need a stimulant. | 0.3 | Historical fiction | Heyer, Georgette | Altsheler, J. A. (Joseph Alexander) | 76816 | 22464 | Heyer, Georgette_[Poems]_1500_29_0.4 | Altsheler, J. A. (Joseph Alexander)_[The Coming of Cuculain]_1500_29_0.8 |
Sylvia's heart leaped to her throat for a moment, but Minty's delighted laugh came back to her, and the guest laughed, too, at the child's antics. Minty, glowing with self‑satisfaction, couldn't resist this moment to leave an impression, so she kept on frolicking—just as naturally to her as a calmer means of getting around—and soon the cow’s playful rotations carried her out of view, leaving Sylvia happy and alone beneath the pine trees. “Isn’t this the most peculiar thing in the world—that I’m actually standing here?” she thought, looking about. She remembered the worn boarding house in Springfield where her father breathed his last; the anxieties that followed his death; her hurried journey; the shock she endured in Boston; and the arrival of a distant cousin who seemed to descend from the clouds to lift her from the lowlands of mortification and hurt to a place where the sea wind chased her worries away. The future troubled Sylvia very little. The problem was that Judge Trent owned the soft, grassy knoll where she stood, the straight, symmetrical balsam fir a short distance away whose bright‑green tips breathed the scent of spring’s renewal, and the gambrel roof that sheltered her inviting chamber. Did he know she was here? The words her cousin had spoken about that slipped her mind. Mr. Dunham had sent for Thinkright. Yes, she recalled now that Judge Trent had ordered her to be sent—presumably to ease his conscience and conceal her, yet to confirm that his sister’s child was safe. Well, his sister’s child would prove the point—at the very moment Thinkright's face suddenly lifted in anticipation of the reprisal he’d spoken of. The evening is perfect," exclaimed Sylvia aloud. The rose‑tinted light had begun to color the water crimson. It drew her. She hurried down the slope toward the belt of birch and evergreen trees that encircled the basin. The fading sun’s rays drifted over the unlit upper windows of the Tide Mill, turning the weather‑beaten shutters a soft pink. Sylvia stepped onto the fragrant trail she’d walked with her host that afternoon, moving toward the land’s edge beyond the mill. Suddenly a clear, bright yet low‑pitched voice fell into her ears, and at almost the same moment she caught sight of the speaker among the trees. The girl stood on the brink of the water, speaking to someone aboard a small boat whose sail was flapping. Since Sylvia could not advance without being seen, she lingered to avoid disturbing the adieux. The boat had clearly just taken aboard this passenger, who carried a bag and was dressed in a dark tailored suit. The skipper, a sun‑burnt young fellow, flashed a row of strong white teeth at a sudden burst of laughter from the lady when Sylvia’s eyes fell upon him. "I wish you'd let me carry the bag up for you," he said. No, I’ll punish myself for arriving too late to join you at the basin. By this point I should have realized that arguing with the tide is futile. "Always seems more unusual here than anywhere else," agreed the boy. Moreover, I’d like you to have a moment to call about that carriage. Don't let them make any mistake. I must catch the train at one o'clock. Yes. When are you coming for good, Miss Edna? Oh, in just a few weeks. June, some time. Benny, from now on it will keep pulling me. She smiled, allowing Sylvia to see her face. Black hair, shimmering with a fine silken sheen, gathered thickly around her white forehead. Her brows, like smooth satin glide, curved in two fine lines above her bright, gentle brown eyes. Her smile earned the adjective “sweet” far more than any she’d ever witnessed, yet the boatman’s next words startled the listener. Miss Lacey comin', too, I s'pose?" " Of course. What a strange question to ask a lonely, forlorn girl. Her stay was brief that season. No; for I was in Switzerland. Why should she? I can’t spare her right now, but she’s assured me she’ll come as usual, so Anemone Cottage will return to its normal state. "Well," the boy said, pausing to find the right words to convey his delight, "we can handle it if you can," he concluded. All right, Benny," she laughed. " Hasten straight toward Gull Point without a moment’s pause, lest the fleeting minutes slip by. All I can think of now is the telephone. Good-by." She waved her hand as he unfurled the sail and pulled the oars to catch the wind. Sylvia saw him nod and smile back. Then that happened on the day she had counted. The stranger slipped onto the path, unnoticed by the watcher, and hurried off. Sylvia saw no houses near the farmhouse, and the familiar mention of Miss Lacey confirmed that the low‑voiced stranger—whose broad vowels and missing r’s sounded strange to Sylvia’s Western ears—was swiftly heading toward Thinkright’s home. A strange feeling beset Sylvia. The newcomer’s impeccable attire, her sure, refined bearing, and even the unspoken adoration in Benny’s sea‑blue eyes all signaled a superiority that left Sylvia feeling a vague resentment toward her. What was Miss Lacey talking about? Aunt Martha, of course. Hadn't Cap'n Lem spoken of her also? What was she to that raven‑haired, charming girl who was nobody’s despised niece? Sylvia’s heart quickened with a hot rush, and she set off running. Why was she wasting time when, eager to see how the stranger would be received, she could instead observe the greeting that awaited him? She was even favored by Judge Trent. The realization tugged at Sylvia’s heart with a hollow ache, yet she pressed onward. Soon she once more caught sight of the newcomer, who emerged from the woods and began climbing the hill toward the house. At once, Sylvia moved slowly, her footsteps silent on the grass. Cap’n Lem and Thinkright entered view, having just come back from the barn, and Sylvia’s eyes widened in surprise at the stranger’s boisterous cry and the men’s quick response. They hurried down the hill to meet her. Cap Lem took her bag, then she laughed as they welcomed her, threw her arms around Thinkright’s neck, and kissed him. Neither of the three noticed Sylvia, who lingered at a distance until they all entered and the door swung shut around them. Pausing to ponder and speculate, the evening’s chill snuck in, making her shiver. The door had shut her out. She felt lonely and forlorn. When Sylvia finally reached the kitchen, she heard voices and laughter spilling in from the doorway. As she turned the knob and pushed the door open, a warm domestic tableau unfurled before her, with the enigmatic girl at its very center. Her hat and jacket lay on a calico‑covered couch, a large apron wrapped around her cloth gown, and she was wiping dishes as Mrs. Lem washed them at the sink. Minty scurried back and forth, setting them aside. Seated by the stove, Thinkright and Cap’n Lem burst into laughter as the door opened, their mirth sparked by the visitor’s remark. Upon spotting Sylvia's fair‑skinned face, her cousin rose to his feet. "I was only beginning to wonder where you might be, little girl," he said kindly. Let me introduce you to Miss Edna Derwent. This is my cousin Sylvia Lacey, and this is Edna. She stepped forward, plate and towel in one hand, and offered the other to Sylvia, who accepted it with a cold demeanor. "I'm fond of the name Lacey," the visitor said, gazing warm‑heartedly into the other girl’s dark eyes with the same bright, affectionate grin that a few minutes earlier had lit up Benny the boatman. Thinkright observed the swift hardening of Sylvia’s face. "Miss Lacey is this woman’s aunt, Edna," he said, “but Sylvia hasn’t yet met Miss Martha.” She has spent her entire life in the West. Mrs. Lem's sharp ears absorbed this information. " In the summer, your aunt looks after Miss Derwent at her cottage on Hawk Island," he continued, turning to Sylvia. “I have a mother, Miss Lacey, who, unfortunately, doesn’t like the island,” Edna said as she returned to the sink. Take this plate, Minty, please. " " Guess you want another wiper, too, don't yer?" asked the child. " I'll take as many as you'll give me," responded Miss Derwent. | The dislike was mutual; and mutually did they libel each other. " By George! “You play a first‑rate game,” Cecil said, marveling at his opponent’s skill, even though he had expected to meet an indifferent rival. Quietly, the captain replied, “Yes, I play well.” I used to play a great deal with my regiment. Yet you're stronger at it than I am. Cecil believed it, yet he refused to admit it. Nevertheless, after winning three successive games, the captain irked his opponent, who began swearing at the chalk, berating the table, swapping cues constantly, and shifting blame for his defeats onto everything but his own lack of skill. While he watched the match closely to judge whether his assessment was warranted, the captain smiled scornfully at every one of the opponent’s eruptions. He correctly realised that a man's true character is best revealed while he engages in a game that blends chance with skill. Only then does a man straighten out and reveal his true self. Self‑love is now implicated, and with both vanity and money at stake, you witness a mind driven by two of its most powerful impulses. Cecil, vain and weak, inadvertently laid bare a hundred tiny facets of his character; and while he was not dishonorable when it came to money matters, his lack of delicacy in handling finances caused the captain to judge him unfavorably on that point. After deciding Cecil’s true worth, he chose to test him on a matter that personally concerned the captain. Have you ever played a game with Violet? he asked. " Her cue is truly remarkable. Yet she excels at everything. I doubt I can make this cannon—yes, there it is. She truly is a magnificent being! Isn't she?" " Splendid, indeed! All three girls are lovely, each in their own distinctive style. What is the state of the game? Seven, love: good.) It is truly sad to imagine that these girls could be completely bereft of any fortune. Good stroke!) " While Cecil was chalking his cue, a blunder landed at his feet; he paused his work and asked, “What do you mean by their having no fortune?” Because the estate is entailed, Vyner—already deeply in debt—will leave no savings to bequeath to his heirs upon his death and will be able to provide them only with their trousseaus when they marry. The devil!" "( That teasing stroke is one of the most devastating hazards that can ruin a game. You must take care. That final remark, though aimed at the game, was so pertinent to Cecil’s own circumstances that he could not help but wince. The captain’s gaze rested intently on him. What a dreadful shame! Cecil bellied out, “A man with an entailed estate who fails to make any provision for his children?” It’s absolutely monstrous! Truly horrendous! What will become of them when he dies? "They will be penniless," the captain said gravely, steering the red ball toward the pocket. Cecil, struck by the enormity, wondered aloud, “Why isn’t he ashamed to look them in the face?” He trusts, I suppose, that they’ll marry rich men," the captain added carelessly. Game! I win everything! Cecil refused to keep playing. He went up to his own room, locked it, and sat to review his situation—an aspect that recent intelligence had wonderfully altered. Captain Heath shrugged, calmly lit a cigar, and walked out, content with the experiment’s outcome. Then he ran into Blanche, who stepped forward, offering her hand and pleading for forgiveness. I know I’ve been quite naughty, but you’ve spoiled me so much that you shouldn’t be surprised if I don’t behave toward you like I would toward my best friend. "Truth be told, I was angry with you, and now I’m angry with myself—am I forgiven?" He simply pressed her hand and awaited her answer. She slipped her arm into his, and together they walked to the riverbank, where they boarded a boat and he rowed her gently downstream. She chatted with him in her most agreeable style, delighted to have allayed her quarrel with her dear Captain Heath. It should be noted that, although he was only thirty‑five, the girls—who had known him since childhood—always considered him an elderly man. They were as fond of him as he was of them, but burst into laughter when one of their companions asked Rose whether any flirtation existed between them. Flirtation!" exclaimed Rose. " Why, he is bald!" The hair above his forehead had been worn thin, not by age but by the constant rubbing of his hussar cap. "No, no, my dear," Rose said, "I don’t create any trouble among the highly respectable—yet utterly unsuitable for flirtation—fathers and grandfathers." My Cupid need not wear a toupet; and if he ever strikes me, it will not be with a gouty arrow. Captain Heath is handsome—with dark, silky moustaches as fine as a guard’s—yet his advanced age lends him a respectable presence. Because of that notion, they neither entertained thoughts of falling in love with him nor contemplated the possibility of him falling in love with them. Consequently, they were as unrestrained around him as they were with a brother or an uncle. Blanche was his special favourite and constant companion. He knew she considered him too old to be loved, yet he trusted that she would eventually see that there was truly no great difference between them. Earlier that morning, the captain remarked, “I’ve been playing billiards with Mr. Chamberlayne,” as he leaned on his oars and let the stream glide them quietly downstream. You have? I hope this changes your opinion. Contrary to that, I foresee his attentions to you—recently heightened—waning noticeably, eventually slipping back into mere insignificance. "It was all because I casually noted that your father's entailed estate—combined with his debts—left you and your sisters without any provision." "And you think he's capable of—oh!" this is too bad. It exemplifies a lack of generosity. Dear Blanche, though I might err, I doubt this; do not condemn me until the events themselves bring judgment. Watch him! " " "You will prove you have defamed him; the event will confirm it," she said warmly. A dark shade crossed his brow as he rowed on briskly. No further words were exchanged between them. HOW A LOVER VACILLATES. Cecil’s reflections brought no cheer. He was so deeply in love with Blanche—who had no portion—that he could not give her up, yet he was keenly aware of his own meagre resources and could not imagine marrying on that basis. Accustomed to a life of luxury, he could not bear poverty in the slightest. The deeper he pondered, the more urgent it seemed to him to overcome his passion and save himself from perdition. If Captain Heath had been able to read what was running in his rival’s mind, he would have smiled grimly at the proof of his suspicions and rejoiced at the success of the experiment that had cleared that rival from his path. When Cecil entered the drawing‑room that evening, he was taken aback by the sight of Violet on the sofa, exactly as he had seen her in the afternoon—caressing Shot in the same exact posture. The unexpected convergence of events unsettled him. “There is fate that forbids my marrying into this family,” he murmured to himself, “first one, then the other.” Blanche lingered by the window, her eyes drifting out toward the garden. “She turned her head toward him as he entered, feeling a faint embarrassment at seeing him flop into a chair next to Rose and start an animated chat with her.” Captain Heath, who had watched the maneuver, turned his gaze to Blanche, but she, aware of his scrutiny, averted herself and returned to the sight of the undulating lawn and distant woods. Dinner was announced. Meredith Vyner, as usual, was escorted by Mrs. Langley Turner; Sir Harry Johnstone by Mrs. Vyner; and Tom Wincot by Violet. Cecil, to Rose's surprise, offered her his arm, which was natural enough, inasmuch as he had been talking to her up to that time; but still, as for many days he had invariably managed to take Blanche, she could not help remarking the circumstance. | 0.4 | Young women -- Fiction | Burnham, Clara Louise | Lawrence, Slingsby | 25954 | 72680 | Burnham, Clara Louise_[The Opened Shutters: A Novel]_1500_17_0.7 | Lawrence, Slingsby_[Rose, Blanche, and Violet, Volume 1 (of 3)]_1500_28_0.8 |
It is true, when the infection came to such a height as I have now mentioned, there were very few physicians which cared to stir abroad to sick houses, and very many of the most eminent of the faculty were dead, as well as the surgeons also; for now it was indeed a dismal time, and for about a month together, not taking any notice of the bills of mortality, I believe there did not die less than 1500 or 1700 a day, one day with another. One of the worst days we had in the whole time, as I thought, was in the beginning of September, when, indeed, good people began to think that God was resolved to make a full end of the people in this miserable city. This was at that time when the plague was fully come into the eastern parishes. The parish of Aldgate, if I may give my opinion, buried above a thousand a week for two weeks, though the bills did not say so many;—but it surrounded me at so dismal a rate that there was not a house in twenty uninfected in the Minories, in Houndsditch, and in those parts of Aldgate parish about the Butcher Row and the alleys over against me. I say, in those places death reigned in every corner. Whitechappel parish was in the same condition, and though much less than the parish I lived in, yet buried near 600 a week by the bills, and in my opinion near twice as many. Whole families, and indeed whole streets of families, were swept away together; insomuch that it was frequent for neighbours to call to the bellman to go to such-and-such houses and fetch out the people, for that they were all dead. And, indeed, the work of removing the dead bodies by carts was now grown so very odious and dangerous that it was complained of that the bearers did not take care to clear such houses where all the inhabitants were dead, but that sometimes the bodies lay several days unburied, till the neighbouring families were offended with the stench, and consequently infected; and this neglect of the officers was such that the churchwardens and constables were summoned to look after it, and even the justices of the Hamlets were obliged to venture their lives among them to quicken and encourage them, for innumerable of the bearers died of the distemper, infected by the bodies they were obliged to come so near. And had it not been that the number of poor people who wanted employment and wanted bread (as I have said before) was so great that necessity drove them to undertake anything and venture anything, they would never have found people to be employed. And then the bodies of the dead would have lain above ground, and have perished and rotted in a dreadful manner. But the magistrates cannot be enough commended in this, that they kept such good order for the burying of the dead, that as fast as any of these they employed to carry off and bury the dead fell sick or died, as was many times the case, they immediately supplied the places with others, which, by reason of the great number of poor that was left out of business, as above, was not hard to do. This occasioned, that notwithstanding the infinite number of people which died and were sick, almost all together, yet they were always cleared away and carried off every night, so that it was never to be said of London that the living were not able to bury the dead. As the desolation was greater during those terrible times, so the amazement of the people increased, and a thousand unaccountable things they would do in the violence of their fright, as others did the same in the agonies of their distemper, and this part was very affecting. Some went roaring and crying and wringing their hands along the street; some would go praying and lifting up their hands to heaven, calling upon God for mercy. I cannot say, indeed, whether this was not in their distraction, but, be it so, it was still an indication of a more serious mind, when they had the use of their senses, and was much better, even as it was, than the frightful yellings and cryings that every day, and especially in the evenings, were heard in some streets. I suppose the world has heard of the famous Solomon Eagle, an enthusiast. He, though not infected at all but in his head, went about denouncing of judgement upon the city in a frightful manner, sometimes quite naked, and with a pan of burning charcoal on his head. What he said, or pretended, indeed I could not learn. I will not say whether that clergyman was distracted or not, or whether he did it in pure zeal for the poor people, who went every evening through the streets of Whitechappel, and, with his hands lifted up, repeated that part of the Liturgy of the Church continually, 'Spare us, good Lord; spare Thy people, whom Thou has redeemed with Thy most precious blood.' I say, I cannot speak positively of these things, because these were only the dismal objects which represented themselves to me as I looked through my chamber windows (for I seldom opened the casements), while I confined myself within doors during that most violent raging of the pestilence; when, indeed, as I have said, many began to think, and even to say, that there would none escape; and indeed I began to think so too, and therefore kept within doors for about a fortnight and never stirred out. But I could not hold it. Besides, there were some people who, notwithstanding the danger, did not omit publicly to attend the worship of God, even in the most dangerous times; and though it is true that a great many clergymen did shut up their churches, and fled, as other people did, for the safety of their lives, yet all did not do so. Some ventured to officiate and to keep up the assemblies of the people by constant prayers, and sometimes sermons or brief exhortations to repentance and reformation, and this as long as any would come to hear them. And Dissenters did the like also, and even in the very churches where the parish ministers were either dead or fled; nor was there any room for making difference at such a time as this was. It was indeed a lamentable thing to hear the miserable lamentations of poor dying creatures calling out for ministers to comfort them and pray with them, to counsel them and to direct them, calling out to God for pardon and mercy, and confessing aloud their past sins. It would make the stoutest heart bleed to hear how many warnings were then given by dying penitents to others not to put off and delay their repentance to the day of distress; that such a time of calamity as this was no time for repentance, was no time to call upon God. I wish I could repeat the very sound of those groans and of those exclamations that I heard from some poor dying creatures when in the height of their agonies and distress, and that I could make him that reads this hear, as I imagine I now hear them, for the sound seems still to ring in my ears. If I could but tell this part in such moving accents as should alarm the very soul of the reader, I should rejoice that I recorded those things, however short and imperfect. It pleased God that I was still spared, and very hearty and sound in health, but very impatient of being pent up within doors without air, as I had been for fourteen days or thereabouts; and I could not restrain myself, but I would go to carry a letter for my brother to the post-house. Then it was indeed that I observed a profound silence in the streets. When I came to the post-house, as I went to put in my letter I saw a man stand in one corner of the yard and talking to another at a window, and a third had opened a door belonging to the office. In the middle of the yard lay a small leather purse with two keys hanging at it, with money in it, but nobody would meddle with it. I asked how long it had lain there; the man at the window said it had lain almost an hour, but that they had not meddled with it, because they did not know but the person who dropped it might come back to look for it. | A recluse, like Hepzibah, usually displays remarkable frankness, and at least temporary affability, on being absolutely cornered, and brought to the point of personal intercourse; like the angel whom Jacob wrestled with, she is ready to bless you when once overcome. The old gentlewoman took a dreary and proud satisfaction in leading Phœbe from room to room of the house, and recounting the traditions with which, as we may say, the walls were lugubriously frescoed. She showed the indentations made by the lieutenant-governor's sword-hilt in the door-panels of the apartment where old Colonel Pyncheon, a dead host, had received his affrighted visitors with an awful frown. The dusky terror of that frown, Hepzibah observed, was thought to be lingering ever since in the passageway. She bade Phœbe step into one of the tall chairs, and inspect the ancient map of the Pyncheon territory at the eastward. In a tract of land on which she laid her finger, there existed a silver mine, the locality of which was precisely pointed out in some memoranda of Colonel Pyncheon himself, but only to be made known when the family claim should be recognized by government. Thus it was for the interest of all New England that the Pyncheons should have justice done them. She told, too, how that there was undoubtedly an immense treasure of English guineas hidden somewhere about the house, or in the cellar, or possibly in the garden. "If you should happen to find it, Phœbe," said Hepzibah, glancing aside at her with a grim yet kindly smile, "we will tie up the shop-bell for good and all! " "Yes, dear cousin," answered Phœbe; "but, in the mean time, I hear somebody ringing it! " When the customer was gone, Hepzibah talked rather vaguely, and at great length, about a certain Alice Pyncheon, who had been exceedingly beautiful and accomplished in her lifetime, a hundred years ago. The fragrance of her rich and delightful character still lingered about the place where she had lived, as a dried rose-bud scents the drawer where it has withered and perished. This lovely Alice had met with some great and mysterious calamity, and had grown thin and white, and gradually faded out of the world. But, even now, she was supposed to haunt the House of the Seven Gables, and, a great many times,—especially when one of the Pyncheons was to die,—she had been heard playing sadly and beautifully on the harpsichord. One of these tunes, just as it had sounded from her spiritual touch, had been written down by an amateur of music; it was so exquisitely mournful that nobody, to this day, could bear to hear it played, unless when a great sorrow had made them know the still profounder sweetness of it. "Was it the same harpsichord that you showed me?" inquired Phœbe. "The very same," said Hepzibah. "It was Alice Pyncheon's harpsichord. When I was learning music, my father would never let me open it. So, as I could only play on my teacher's instrument, I have forgotten all my music long ago. " Leaving these antique themes, the old lady began to talk about the daguerreotypist, whom, as he seemed to be a well-meaning and orderly young man, and in narrow circumstances, she had permitted to take up his residence in one of the seven gables. But, on seeing more of Mr. Holgrave, she hardly knew what to make of him. He had the strangest companions imaginable; men with long beards, and dressed in linen blouses, and other such new-fangled and ill-fitting garments; reformers, temperance lecturers, and all manner of cross-looking philanthropists; community-men, and come-outers, as Hepzibah believed, who acknowledged no law, and ate no solid food, but lived on the scent of other people's cookery, and turned up their noses at the fare. As for the daguerreotypist, she had read a paragraph in a penny paper, the other day, accusing him of making a speech full of wild and disorganizing matter, at a meeting of his banditti-like associates. For her own part, she had reason to believe that he practised animal magnetism, and, if such things were in fashion nowadays, should be apt to suspect him of studying the Black Art up there in his lonesome chamber. "But, dear cousin," said Phœbe, "if the young man is so dangerous, why do you let him stay? If he does nothing worse, he may set the house on fire! " "Why, sometimes," answered Hepzibah, "I have seriously made it a question, whether I ought not to send him away. But, with all his oddities, he is a quiet kind of a person, and has such a way of taking hold of one's mind, that, without exactly liking him (for I don't know enough of the young man), I should be sorry to lose sight of him entirely. A woman clings to slight acquaintances when she lives so much alone as I do. "But if Mr. Holgrave is a lawless person!" remonstrated Phœbe, a part of whose essence it was to keep within the limits of law. "Oh!" said Hepzibah carelessly,—for, formal as she was, still, in her life's experience, she had gnashed her teeth against human law,—"I suppose he has a law of his own! " VI. Maule's Well After an early tea, the little country-girl strayed into the garden. The enclosure had formerly been very extensive, but was now contracted within small compass, and hemmed about, partly by high wooden fences, and partly by the outbuildings of houses that stood on another street. In its centre was a grass-plat, surrounding a ruinous little structure, which showed just enough of its original design to indicate that it had once been a summer-house. A hop-vine, springing from last year's root, was beginning to clamber over it, but would be long in covering the roof with its green mantle. Three of the seven gables either fronted or looked sideways, with a dark solemnity of aspect, down into the garden. The black, rich soil had fed itself with the decay of a long period of time; such as fallen leaves, the petals of flowers, and the stalks and seed-vessels of vagrant and lawless plants, more useful after their death than ever while flaunting in the sun. The evil of these departed years would naturally have sprung up again, in such rank weeds (symbolic of the transmitted vices of society) as are always prone to root themselves about human dwellings. Phœbe saw, however, that their growth must have been checked by a degree of careful labor, bestowed daily and systematically on the garden. The white double rosebush had evidently been propped up anew against the house since the commencement of the season; and a pear-tree and three damson-trees, which, except a row of currant-bushes, constituted the only varieties of fruit, bore marks of the recent amputation of several superfluous or defective limbs. There were also a few species of antique and hereditary flowers, in no very flourishing condition, but scrupulously weeded; as if some person, either out of love or curiosity, had been anxious to bring them to such perfection as they were capable of attaining. The remainder of the garden presented a well-selected assortment of esculent vegetables, in a praiseworthy state of advancement. Summer squashes almost in their golden blossom; cucumbers, now evincing a tendency to spread away from the main stock, and ramble far and wide; two or three rows of string-beans and as many more that were about to festoon themselves on poles; tomatoes, occupying a site so sheltered and sunny that the plants were already gigantic, and promised an early and abundant harvest. Phœbe wondered whose care and toil it could have been that had planted these vegetables, and kept the soil so clean and orderly. Not surely her cousin Hepzibah's, who had no taste nor spirits for the lady-like employment of cultivating flowers, and—with her recluse habits, and tendency to shelter herself within the dismal shadow of the house—would hardly have come forth under the speck of open sky to weed and hoe among the fraternity of beans and squashes. It being her first day of complete estrangement from rural objects, Phœbe found an unexpected charm in this little nook of grass, and foliage, and aristocratic flowers, and plebeian vegetables. The eye of Heaven seemed to look down into it pleasantly, and with a peculiar smile, as if glad to perceive that nature, elsewhere overwhelmed, and driven out of the dusty town, had here been able to retain a breathing-place. The spot acquired a somewhat wilder grace, and yet a very gentle one, from the fact that a pair of robins had built their nest in the pear-tree, and were making themselves exceedingly busy and happy in the dark intricacy of its boughs. | 0 | Historical fiction | Defo, Daniel | Hawthorne, Nathaniel | 376 | 77 | Defo, Daniel_[A Journal of the Plague Year Being Observations or Memorials of the Most Remarkable Occurrences, as Well Public as Private, Which Happened in London During the Last Great Visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen Who Continued All the While in London]_1500_27 | Hawthorne, Nathaniel_[The House of the Seven Gables]_1500_19 |
I never was attracted to the late rebellion. I regarded the adventure as a wicked madness. I take leave to ask your lordship" (his brogue became more marked than ever) "what should I, who was born and bred a papist, be doing in the army of the Protestant Champion?" "A papist thou?" The judge gloomed on him a moment. "Art more like a snivelling, canting Jack Presbyter. I tell you, man, I can smell a Presbyterian forty miles. " "Then I'll take leave to marvel that with so keen a nose your lordship can't smell a papist at four paces. " There was a ripple of laughter in the galleries, instantly quelled by the fierce glare of the Judge and the voice of the crier. Lord Jeffreys leaned farther forward upon his desk. He raised that delicate white hand, still clutching its handkerchief, and sprouting from a froth of lace. "We'll leave your religion out of account for the moment, friend," said he. "But mark what I say to you." With a minatory forefinger he beat the time of his words. "Know, friend, that there is no religion a man can pretend to can give a countenance to lying. Thou hast a precious immortal soul, and there is nothing in the world equal to it in value. Consider that the great God of Heaven and Earth, before Whose tribunal thou and we and all persons are to stand at the last day, will take vengeance on thee for every falsehood, and justly strike thee into eternal flames, make thee drop into the bottomless pit of fire and brimstone, if thou offer to deviate the least from the truth and nothing but the truth. For I tell thee God is not mocked. On that I charge you to answer truthfully. How came you to be taken with these rebels?" Peter Blood gaped at him a moment in consternation. The man was incredible, unreal, fantastic, a nightmare judge. Then he collected himself to answer. "I was summoned that morning to succour Lord Gildoy, and I conceived it to be the duty imposed upon me by my calling to answer that summons. " "Did you so?" The Judge, terrible now of aspect—his face white, his twisted lips red as the blood for which they thirsted—glared upon him in evil mockery. Then he controlled himself as if by an effort. He sighed. He resumed his earlier gentle plaintiveness. "Lord! How you waste our time. But I'll have patience with you. Who summoned you?" "Master Pitt there, as he will testify. " "Oh! Master Pitt will testify—he that is himself a traitor self-confessed. Is that your witness?" "There is also Master Baynes here, who can answer to it. " "Good Master Baynes will have to answer for himself; and I doubt not he'll be greatly exercised to save his own neck from a halter. Come, come, sir; are these your only witnesses?" "I could bring others from Bridgewater, who saw me set out that morning upon the crupper of Master Pitt's horse. " His lordship smiled. "It will not be necessary. For, mark me, I do not intend to waste more time on you. Answer me only this: When Master Pitt, as you pretend, came to summon you, did you know that he had been, as you have heard him confess, of Monmouth's following?" "I did, My lord. " "You did! Ha!" His lordship looked at the cringing jury and uttered a short, stabbing laugh. "Yet in spite of that you went with him? " "To succour a wounded man, as was my sacred duty. " "Thy sacred duty, sayest thou?" Fury blazed out of him again. "Good God! What a generation of vipers do we live in! Thy sacred duty, rogue, is to thy King and to God. But let it pass. Did he tell you whom it was that you were desired to succour?" "Lord Gildoy—yes." "And you knew that Lord Gildoy had been wounded in the battle, and on what side he fought?" "I knew. " "And yet, being, as you would have us believe, a true and loyal subject of our Lord the King, you went to succour him?" Peter Blood lost patience for a moment. "My business, my lord, was with his wounds, not with his politics. " A murmur from the galleries and even from the jury approved him. It served only to drive his terrible judge into a deeper fury. "Jesus God! Was there ever such an impudent villain in the world as thou?" He swung, white-faced, to the jury. "I hope, gentlemen of the jury, you take notice of the horrible carriage of this traitor rogue, and withal you cannot but observe the spirit of this sort of people, what a villainous and devilish one it is. Out of his own mouth he has said enough to hang him a dozen times. Yet is there more. Answer me this, sir: When you cozened Captain Hobart with your lies concerning the station of this other traitor Pitt, what was your business then?" "To save him from being hanged without trial, as was threatened. " "What concern was it of yours whether or how the wretch was hanged?" "Justice is the concern of every loyal subject, for an injustice committed by one who holds the King's commission is in some sense a dishonour to the King's majesty. " It was a shrewd, sharp thrust aimed at the jury, and it reveals, I think, the alertness of the man's mind, his self-possession ever steadiest in moments of dire peril. With any other jury it must have made the impression that he hoped to make. It may even have made its impression upon these poor pusillanimous sheep. But the dread judge was there to efface it. He gasped aloud, then flung himself violently forward. "Lord of Heaven!" he stormed. "Was there ever such a canting, impudent rascal? But I have done with you. I see thee, villain, I see thee already with a halter round thy neck. " Having spoken so, gloatingly, evilly, he sank back again, and composed himself. It was as if a curtain fell. All emotion passed again from his pale face. Back to invest it again came that gentle melancholy. Speaking after a moment's pause, his voice was soft, almost tender, yet every word of it carried sharply through that hushed court. "If I know my own heart it is not in my nature to desire the hurt of anybody, much less to delight in his eternal perdition. It is out of compassion for you that I have used all these words—because I would have you have some regard for your immortal soul, and not ensure its damnation by obdurately persisting in falsehood and prevarication. But I see that all the pains in the world, and all compassion and charity are lost upon you, and therefore I will say no more to you." He turned again to the jury that countenance of wistful beauty. "Gentlemen, I must tell you for law, of which we are the judges, and not you, that if any person be in actual rebellion against the King, and another person—who really and actually was not in rebellion—does knowingly receive, harbour, comfort, or succour him, such a person is as much a traitor as he who indeed bore arms. We are bound by our oaths and consciences to declare to you what is law; and you are bound by your oaths and your consciences to deliver and to declare to us by your verdict the truth of the facts. " Upon that he proceeded to his summing-up, showing how Baynes and Blood were both guilty of treason, the first for having harboured a traitor, the second for having succoured that traitor by dressing his wounds. He interlarded his address by sycophantic allusions to his natural lord and lawful sovereign, the King, whom God had set over them, and with vituperations of Nonconformity and of Monmouth, of whom—in his own words—he dared boldly affirm that the meanest subject within the kingdom that was of legitimate birth had a better title to the crown. "Jesus God! That ever we should have such a generation of vipers among us," he burst out in rhetorical frenzy. And then he sank back as if exhausted by the violence he had used. A moment he was still, dabbing his lips again; then he moved uneasily; once more his features were twisted by pain, and in a few snarling, almost incoherent words he dismissed the jury to consider the verdict. Peter Blood had listened to the intemperate, the blasphemous, and almost obscene invective of that tirade with a detachment that afterwards, in retrospect, surprised him. | The old domestic went slowly and in a side-long manner out of the apartment, gazing at the young lady the whole time, and muttering "what is the matter with the child?" Feliciana remained where she was the greater part of the day, closed her ears to the repeated exhortations of her old servant to take food, and declared, in answer to her pressing questions, that she had had a disagreeable dream the night before, which had thrown a feeling of melancholy over her the whole of that day. When she retired to her apartment in the evening, the young lady hastily gathered her valuables, and wrote a letter, which she addressed to her father, and sat quietly and pensively until the night was half spent. She then rose, and carefully let herself out of the house, and walked slowly and cautiously away, until she got to a considerable distance from the Rancha. Once in the open field, the bold Feliciana began to run, for it was only by running that she could keep pace with the rapidity and activity of her thoughts. The next day she was by the sea shore, and was just in time to catch a glimpse of the little fallucha which had received Appadocca on board, as she was sailing away. She waved her handkerchief, but no one on board saw her, and the fallucha left her behind. Undaunted by this accident, the young lady continued her journey along the shore, moving, however, in an easterly direction. Oppressed with fatigue, she sat for a moment, in the evening, on the grass, to rest herself. The dull sounds of horses' hoofs in a short time were distinctly heard. "I am undone," Feliciana exclaimed, and turned to look. Two horsemen were seen rapidly approaching in the direction by which she herself had come. "They are my father's men," she said to herself, and looked about for some tree, or other object, behind which she might conceal herself: but there was not a thing at hand. The horsemen drew closer and closer again; she looked round once more: at a short distance, the grass seemed to grow richer and thicker. She crept along towards this point, and threw herself flat into the tuft: but she was barely concealed, and durst not hope to escape being seen. "I cannot avoid being taken," she said to herself, and seemed unnerved by the thought. The horsemen approached nearer and nearer. The thoughts of Appadocca crowded on her; the conflict of undefined feelings which had taken place in her mind, had ended in leaving her a being that was devoted to that mysterious man, and one who could now form no idea of life in which he was not the beginning and the end. Her fears now yielded to a stronger feeling; she drew from her bosom a gilded poniard, and vowed that she would not be deterred from fulfilling her vow as long as she lived. The horsemen had almost arrived to where she was, they came opposite to her, they looked neither on one side nor on the other, but seemed entirely absorbed by the subject on which they were conversing in a loud tone of voice. From her hiding place Feliciana could see them distinctly. Joy, joy! they were not her father's men. But may they not be other persons that were sent after her in one direction, while her father's own Llaneros went in another? She remained quiet and listened. "No, I shall not take less than seven piastres each for my oxen; and, as for my jack-asses, I shall not let them go for less than four piastres a-head," said one of the horsemen. "You are quite right," replied the other; "those people in Trinidad can afford to pay a good price for their bullocks. By-the-bye, have you remarked what a number more of beasts we sell since the English took that island. I understand these fellows live entirely on beef, and that is the reason why they are such good soldiers. " "Good or bad soldiers," answered the other, "if they eat beef, and make us sell our cattle, that is all we care about. " "They are merchants," said Feliciana to herself, and resolved at once to speak to them. "Yes, continued the first speaker, I shall not—" "Ho!" cried Feliciana, springing from the ground, "senores, senores, ho!" The horsemen looked round, and crossed themselves, and at the same time, cried, "Jesu! " "Stop, stop, I wish to speak to you," Feliciana continued. The horseman reined up their horses, and remained apparently under the effect of some powerful fear. "What may she be?" "Who knows what she may be! that's just the reason why we should obey her," replied the other. In the mean time Feliciana came up. "Shall we speak to her?" one inquired of the other. "Where are you riding to, senores?" she inquired. They looked inquiringly at each other, and then asked each other in a whisper, "Shall I answer?" "Where are you going to, senores?" she repeated. "To Guiria, beautiful lady," one at last answered. "Be good enough to take me with you," said Feliciana. The horsemen looked amazed at each other. "I shall give you two hundred piastres. " The two horsemen opened their eyes. "Two hundred piastres?" they repeated inquiringly. "Yes." "And who are you, beautiful lady, that are thus solitary in the Savannahs? are you one of us or some blessed spirit that is permitted to walk the earth. We are good and true catholics, do not harm us, we beseech you." The two horsemen here devoutly crossed themselves respectively. "I am no spirit," answered Feliciana, "but an unfortunate lady, who is flying to the rescue of—of—her—husband: pray take me on with you, and I shall reward you, as I have said. " The horsemen mused, and whispered to each other for a moment. Then one of them dismounted. "Senora," he said, "Heaven forbid that we should ever commit the crime of leaving a lady in the wilds without shelter or protection. Allow me to assist you in mounting my horse. " Feliciana was supported on the saddle. The three persons then proceeded on their journey. The horsemen changed places alternately at the various stages of the journey; and while one walked at the side of Feliciana's horse, the other rode by turns, until they arrived in the environs of the town of Guiria, where Feliciana found a number of opportunities to continue her wanderings in search of Appadocca. "How would you be, If He, who is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that; And mercy then will breathe between your lips, Like men new made. " MEASURE FOR MEASURE. After Appadocca had jumped overboard, the large ship passed the bocas safely, entered upon the still waters of the gulf, and within a few hours afterwards her large Anchor was cast off the harbour of Port-of-Spain. As the vessel approached nearer to her port of destruction, Charles Hamilton had become more and more anxious, and uneasy about the fated doom which he saw every moment hanging lower and lower over his friend. He reasonably argued that, with such a willing witness as James Willmington, and with such a stoical disposition as his friend had formed to himself, there would not be the slightest chance of Appadocca's acquittal when he should be tried. For Willmington, it was to be supposed, would not attenuate the least feature of the case, nor would Appadocca descend from his high notions of philosophy to conceal or deny the charges that would be brought against him. In this state of mind, Charles Hamilton considered a long time, and endeavoured to think of some means of still saving his friend. It was, however, a difficult and perplexing matter, for the only available measures that he could adopt, were doggedly repudiated by Appadocca himself. "Confound his obstinacy," the young officer muttered, when he thought of his friend's infatuation; "he might have been saved long ago if it were not for that. " Among a number of expedients and plans, Hamilton at last adopted the one of having an interview with James Willmington, of endeavouring to soften down his persecuting feeling, and of establishing, if not terms of kindness and affection, at least those neutrality and indifference between him and Appadocca. It was in this disposition, that long before the sun had risen on the morning after the man-of-war had come to an anchor, Charles Hamilton requested a servant to ask James Willmington to be good enough to attend him in his cabin. Willmington, whose excitement had kept him awake the whole night, shortly appeared. "Be good enough to sit down, sir," said Hamilton. Willmington sat down. | 0 | Adventure stories | Sabatini, R. | Philip, Maxwell | 1965 | 75314 | Sabatini, R._[Captain Blood]_1500_7 | Philip, Maxwell_[Emmanuel Appadocca; or, Blighted life, Volume 2 (of 2) : $b A tale of the boucaneers]_1500_20 |
"I suppose you haven't been in my lady's counsels all the time, helping her to deceive me with her accounts, and what-all, have you?" The room reeled round Lydia, and she heard as from an immense distance the remonstrating voice of Mr. Codd: "Sir Rupert! I have already assured you——" Could all this be about the accounts, and the money Lady Honoret had spent? Lydia asked herself wildly. " Be quiet, you fellow!" Sir Rupert was bellowing at Mr. Codd. " You've done your part. I don't want to hear any more from you. " " I make allowances, Sir Rupert," said Mr. Codd with dignity, "for the shock you have sustained. But really—your manner to this young lady, to say nothing of myself——" Sir Rupert drew a shaking hand across his face. He said nothing, but his habitual, sudden snort seemed designed to express a return to calm. Mr. Codd turned to Lydia. " Sir Rupert will hardly require you to-day. This has come as a complete blow to you, I see. " " But what is it?" Lydia asked again. Mr. Codd glanced at the financier, as though the words served to corroborate some statement of his own. " Miss Raymond, have you had no idea of what has been going on in this house?" Sir Rupert demanded suddenly. " I don't understand," Lydia said blankly. " Do you know why Mr. Codd is here?" " You asked him to stay. " " Asked him to stay! What do you suppose I asked him for?" Mr. Codd interposed again. " I assure you, Sir Rupert, that not a single person in this house—except yourself—has the slightest idea of the purpose for which I have been here. Secrecy was essential to our scheme, and this young lady was completely duped. "It would indeed be strange," Mr Codd observed with a slight, superior laugh, "if an investigator of my experience compromised himself like a mere novice." Lydia had seen in the newspapers adverts for firms supplying private inquiry agents, and one such agent, Mr Codd, Sir Rupert’s former hunting companion in West Africa—though his reminiscences of the tropics were merely part of a required façade, as he was no friend at all but a paid spy. Then who...? Wave after wave of sick enlightenment broke over Lydia. " Has Lady Honoret——" she began, hardly knowing what she said. " "You barely understand, I suppose," Mr. Codd said kindly, though a congratulatory undertone in his voice betrayed how pleased he was with the success of his disguise. It's like this, Miss Raymond. Sir Rupert had to determine, in short, whether he possessed sufficient grounds to file a petition for divorce. He very wisely put the matter into the hands of a most eminent firm, which I have the honour to represent. " Lydia, like many another girl of her age and standing, seldom read a newspaper. She had been taught that "divorce" was a shocking word, not mentioned among decent people. The sporadic rumors circulating in the boarding‑house, sourced from the so‑called “society paper” columns, offered her the closest glimpse she’d ever glimpsed of the sordid reality. Shaking all over, she burst into tears that were an actual physical relief. " Do you mean to tell me that you had no idea at all of her ladyship's little games?" said Sir Rupert, almost threateningly. " I thought you were as thick as thieves. " " No!" cried Lydia, wildly repudiating she knew not what. " You've seen that dam' fellow Cassela hanging about?" Lydia nodded her head, barely understanding the implication. " I told you so, Sir Rupert," Mr. Codd said. " I was certain that Miss Raymond could know nothing. But we shall have plenty of witnesses without her. " The word "witnesses," associated in a vague, muddled way in Lydia's mind with the barely-apprehended horrors of the police court, filled her with panic. " I don't know anything about it," she gasped, and rose to her feet. " Let me go. " " Not so fast," said Sir Rupert with sudden, renewed suspicion. " How am I to know that you aren't concealing valuable evidence? “I assure you I will see this matter through, even if it means dragging all of you into court.” Mr. Codd shook his head, and put a fearless hand on the Jew's trembling shoulder. " Now, now, Sir Rupert. This is most natural, but you're frightening the young lady. When the appropriate moment arrives, she will disclose every truth needed for the pursuit of justice, and I assure you that last night's testimony will suffice—plainly put. We have more than enough evidence to institute proceedings at once, as I have told you already. " Lydia wrenched at the door handle and found herself, she scarcely knew how, out of the room, with its echo of horrible words. Shaking from head to foot, she went downstairs. What had happened was no longer incomprehensible to her, but her ignorance inspired her with terrible fears as to the results to herself of the cataclysm. Could they put her into a witness-box—perhaps try her for having falsified Lady Honoret's accounts? Lydia’s innate provincialism flared, making her almost ill at the thought that such publicity would consign her to unfathomable shame before her relatives—Aunt Beryl, the Senthovens, Uncle George, and Mr. Monteagle Almond—all of whom. Their names rushed to her mind in a chaotic bewilderment of horror. A new, sudden pang cut through the chaos, and Lydia recalled old Mr. Palmer and his kindly, hesitant inquiries about the tone of the household where she had chosen to work. After all, then, he had known best! It seemed to her that her fractured perceptions were almost a natural continuation of the conviction that a voice was speaking to her from the hall, evoking the distant, wistful calm of her visit to Devonshire. Something has happened—can I do anything?" She saw Clement Damerel, and realized with distraught, passionate gratitude that the solicitude in his kind, anxious face was for herself. Crying and sobbing in an abandonment she had never known—even from her fiercely disciplined childhood—Lydia pushed him into the empty drawing‑room, out of the way of the prying servants. It's frightful—frightful!" she sobbed. " A detective, whom I hadn’t known about, had been involved, and Sir Rupert is about to divorce Lady Honoret, thinking that I know what’s happening and can serve as a witness. Don't let me—take me away—help me, somehow! " " Oh, you poor child!" said Clement Damerel, and he put Lydia into an arm-chair, and knelt down on one knee beside her. XX Never could Lydia forget the nightmare horror of the hours that followed. The only comfort to be found—but it was a very substantial one—was in Mr. Damerel's kindness—almost tenderness. He was the one who conveyed her from Lexham Gardens in a cab, met Miss Nettleship at the boarding‑house, and explained that Miss Raymond had been deeply shocked and ought to remain quietly in her room for a day or two—if feasible—without having to worry about speaking to anyone. “That’ll be quite all right,” Miss Nettleship repeated, clasping Lydia's hand and, though ungrounded, speaking with the kindest of intentions, her round brown eyes anxiously fixed on Mr Damerel. She was very kind to Lydia, and came and sat with her that evening, and Lydia, completely unnerved, told her the whole story. Miss Nettleship confined all her comments to pitying ejaculations on Lydia's behalf. Poor dear! It was dreadful indeed for her to be drawn into such a matter—and how abominable it was for Sir Rupert Honoret to pretend that she knew anything about it! Miss Nettleship was certain she had been both dignified and brave even as the horrible man insulted her; how fitting it was to trust that kind, gentlemanly young clergyman and confide everything to him. Miss Nettleship’s wholehearted support and praise for Lydia’s discretion lifted Lydia’s composure, even if only because it offered her a fresh perspective on the case. At first she had only been conscious that she might yet find herself held partly responsible for wicked Lady Honoret's minor peccadilloes at least, and inclined to reproach herself bitterly for not having listened to old Mr. Palmer's advice. | During lunch they spoke of Violet, of the shooting that Cedric had been enjoying in Scotland. Cedric’s benevolent hospitality was consistently tinged with a subtle pomposity reminiscent of Sir Francis. After lunch, he, with a touch of ceremony, escorted his sister back into the library. Please sit down, my dear, for you look quite exhausted. I know you don’t smoke. Do you mind if I—? After a few pulls from his pipe, he carefully pressed the tobacco more tightly into the bowl with a nicotine‑stained finger. Still staring at the black mass lodged there, he spoke in a calm, unconcerned tone: "About this move of yours, Alex." Violet and I couldn’t fully understand it – that realization truly broke me, and the issue of the cheque I’d issued for the servants only added to the confusion. "I couldn't quite make out your letter," he said, pausing as if to give her a chance to speak, his gaze still drifting away. Alex remained silent, as if frozen in a state of paralysis. Cedric, with a pleasant smile, suggested, “Let’s address one question at a time.” The cheque matter is, of course, trivial and can be settled with ease. One must be scrupulous with money matters, because money matters are money matters—you understand Father's way of thinking, and I, too, fully agree. There was no need to explain that to Alex. Alex, have you brought the cheque with you? At last, Alex replied, “No.” "Did you not grasp my letter at all?" Cedric’s spectacles, resting on his left hand, began to tap slowly against the palm, his right hand holding them loosely. Did you, uh, actually cash that cheque? Yes." Alex felt as if she were being gripped by the Inquisition, yet she could only respond to Cedric’s pointed inquiries with terse, one‑word answers. May I ask what you used the money for? Cedric, this isn’t fair! It broke off from Alex. “I have written to and told you what I did: I needed money and thought you wouldn’t mind.” I spent it on myself, though I had intended to write to you and explain. Cedric repeated it, his voice betraying a stunned astonishment. You promised to lend me money—I realized you could issue another cheque for the servants' wages. I didn’t think about your concerns. Mind!" Cedric repeated the remark, his tone echoing the familiarity of his nursery days. Rewrite:
"My dear girl, you don't think this is all about the money I'm concerned with, do you?" No, no—I should have asked you first, but I didn’t think it was necessary; it seemed natural. Cedric cried, more moved than she had ever seen him. Rewritten sentence:
"Do you realize what you’re saying?" Is embezzling money a natural thing to do? Tears of terror and bewilderment seized Alex’s weakened faculties, leaving her speechless. Cedric paced the library, his words rushing out as he kept his eyes averted from her. If you had only written to me and told me what you had done right away—though Heaven knows even that alone would have been enough—why did you commit the act and then let it die out? Aren’t you aware that it will inevitably come to light? He fixed Alex with a brief glance while tears streamed down her trembling face, but she said nothing. Explaining to Cedric that she had never expected to be discovered would have been futile. She had no intent to conceal. She had thought her action so simple that it hardly required any explanation or justification. It simply wasn’t worth the effort to write. Cedric’s voice kept building, each word growing more forceful as the agitation that had rattled him eased beneath his controlled fluency. Are you aware that what you did constitutes a prosecutable offence, Alex? Of course there’s no doubt about it, but to wager on that certainty—Alex made an inarticulate sound. Violet says, “Clearly, you had no idea what you were doing.” That dreadful convent has utterly wrecked you. Whenever I think of those people, memories rush back. A grim shadow settled over Cedric’s face. But just go ahead, Alex—you were raised like everyone else. “And on matters of honour—consider your father!” Alex had finally quieted her tears. She was on the verge of making her final stand, clutching the last of her strength. Cedric—listen to me. You must! You don't understand. I didn’t view it from your perspective—I didn’t see it that way. I sense something is wrong, yet it feels utterly inconsequential. I know you won’t believe me, but I considered the money to be a small, unimportant matter, and I thought you would understand and say it was right for me to assume I could use it. The money itself isn’t the issue. groaned Cedric. " Although I don’t know why you wanted it—since you had no expenses and your allowance had just been paid in—that’s not the point. Do you not see, Alex? It isn’t the damned cheque per se that matters; it’s the principle behind it. Alex stared at him, utterly hopeless. The trembling ember of her spirit faded, casting her soul into an abyss of darkness. Cedric turned to stand before her. "I couldn’t fathom that your letter actually meant what it seemed to say," he said slowly. "But if it does—as your own words confirm—then I understand your departure, needless to say." Where do you live—was it really Malden Road? True to his habit, he unfolded her letter and pointed out the address with careful precision. Where exactly is Malden Road located? My dear girl, do you really think this is all about the money that’s on my mind? “Are you inside any of the rooms?” Yes." " What was your impression of them? Who recommended them?" She offered no reply, and Cedric stared at her, his face twisted between anger and compassion. You have no doubt the right to keep your own counsel and make your own arrangements, Alex, but the very thought of you unsettles me greatly. Your position is unusual, and your attitude makes it almost impossible to—he broke off. Violet begged me—though it may seem excessive, as you know what she is—to assure you that no sense of estrangement existed and that whatever arrangement you preferred could be made. Certainly, Pamela’s marriage will augment your resources—you know that, don't you? She is marrying an exceedingly rich man, and I will gladly arrange for her share of our father’s money to be transferred to you as soon as it can be done. She wishes for it herself. He paused, as if expecting an expression of gratitude from Alex, but she made none. Pam had everything, and now her generosity would come at no cost to her. Alex fell into a bitter silence. Clearly, the best option is for you to join Barbara and share the costs, now that you’re able to do so. Barbara doesn't wish for my presence. Cedric answered with unwavering certainty: “That is the natural arrangement.” I must add, Alex, that you appear terribly ill‑equipped to manage your own life. If your account is true, I am left with only one conclusion: your moral compass is utterly distorted. I could not have believed it would come from one of us—one of my father’s own children. Alex realized he had reached the bedrock of Cedric’s character. She had reached the moment when, for Cedric, the boundary between right and wrong had begun and ended — honour. They would never be any closer to each other again. The foundational principle that governed Cedric’s life was lacking in Alex. She rose slowly, her fingers brushing the frayed fabric of her shabby gloves as she pulled them onto her hands. Will you grant me forgiveness, Cedric? She let out a half‑sob. It isn’t about forgiveness. Certainly, I will. But if you had simply asked me for that wretched money, Alex! What you did was embezzle—nothing more, nothing less. Oh, good Lord! " He stared at her with a fresh wave of despair before ringing the bell. He told her, with a resolute tone, "You will take a taxi." You're not fit to take any other path. Alex, my dear, I’d give my right hand to make this never have happened—come to me whenever you need anything. What amount should I give you now? He unlocked the drawer of the writing table, his fingers trembling with agitation. Alex thought to herself hysterically, "He thinks I may steal money, perhaps, from somebody else, if I want it, and _perhaps I should_." | 0.6 | Young women -- Fiction | Dashwood, Elizabeth M. | Dashwood, Elizabeth M. | 73352 | 34935 | Dashwood, Elizabeth M._[The heel of Achilles]_1500_55_0.2 | Dashwood, Elizabeth M._[Village Life in China: A Study in Sociology]_1500_68_0.9 |
Tarnuff was hunched over the calculation table, his back to the door. A few times he stretched out his hand and nudged the directional‑finder a touch to match the chart. Ron watched silently, a grim smile on his lips. Ron spoke only after Tarnuff straightened from his task: “For the second time, Tarnuff—hello.” The Martian spun in his seat, spotting Ron with a pistol poised in his hand. You!" He exclaimed, springing to his feet, only to slump back into his chair again. So—you broke out, eh? That clumsy fool, Oruk—I’ll have my hands on you soon. His face darkened. Ron laughed aloud. " You'll have a hard time doing that. Your burly companion is a thousand miles from us in space by now. “Yes,” he answered the other’s questioning eyes, “I blasted a hole through him.” He gestured to the Martian's belt. " I'll take that pistol now—I've asked for it a while back, you recall. First stand up, then toss it to me—careful! " Tarnuff obeyed, sullenly. Ron snatched the pistol and tucked it into his belt. And now my electro-gun, please. That's right. Thanks. You've got your course charted?" " Yes." " For where?" " Callisto." " Good enough for the time being. Secure the controls and sit back at the table. We'll get down to business. " " I haven't any business with you, Earthman." " Oh, yes you have, but you don't know it yet. Sit down!" Ron shoved the pistol at him meaningly. Tarnuff complied, appearing more puzzled than he was sullen. But his confusion faded quickly, for Ron unfolded a sheet and slid it across to him. I'm Ron Jordan. After you’ve read it, the name may begin to ring true. You’ll be required to sign it if you want any chance of leaving this ship alive. Ron watched him closely as he read, and saw comprehension slowly dawning in the Martian's eyes. Tarnuff finished telling the brief yet concise account of the asteroid incident as relayed by Carl Jordan. He glanced upward, his lips curling into a barely concealed contemptuous grin. Ah, yes, I remember now. Your brother, I presume. I learned from the broadcast that he had been convicted of smuggling Silicytes. Most unfortunate. " " Unfortunate for you, right now. Sign!" Tarnuff calmly ignored the menacing pistol and replied, “This statement implicates me most seriously, Ron Jordan.” I do not like that. " " "Sign," Ron snarled, teeth clenched, "or I’ll blast you right here and now." Tarnuff shook his head. " That's one thing I know you won't do. Not without my signature. You need it too badly. " " Do I? You forget one thing, Tarnuff. The Patrol is still hunting for a ship called Lucifer, and your attempt to disguise it has proven rather clumsy. I had planned to let you escape when it suited you, but now I must bring you—and this ship—back to Earth. That should be conclusive enough. " But Tarnuff was smiling blandly, leaning back in the chair. He laughed heartily at something, while Ron felt a vague unease, unsure of why. No, Ron Jordan," the Martian was saying. " I doubt you’d dare launch this spacer onto Earth or any other planet. Why not?" " Because you know too well the penalty for Silicyte smuggling. Has it not occurred to you what my cargo is? I'm carrying a full load of Silicytes at this moment. When you land, I’ll swear to the authorities that you’re my accomplice in this. They’ll take your brother’s fate as evidence and assume that slave‑trading is a family business. Tarnuff laughed harshly, looking up at Ron's suddenly perplexed face. It took Ron several seconds to grasp the implications of those words. Then he said explosively: "I don't believe you! " " You don't believe I've got the Silicytes aboard? Come and see for yourself. " Ron deduced from the man's cool insolence that he was telling the truth. However, he followed Tarnuff back aboard, keeping the pistol trained on him. The Martian unlocked and flung open a handful of doors, revealing the Silicytes inside. Ron had seen those odd creatures only twice in his life, and never so up close. They stood upright, roughly humanoid in shape, but that was the extent of their resemblance. Thousands of faceted crystals formed their bodies, interlocking with a peculiar cohesion that made them flash iridescently whenever they moved. Instead of arms, dozens of chain‑shaped crystalline tendrils draped down from the shoulders. They looked bone‑thin and delicate, as if a mere touch would cause them to crumble, but that was only an illusion. They possessed a dull intelligence, yet once they understood an instruction they obeyed it automatically, and they would work tirelessly for long periods to earn the metal scraps they absorbed and relished. For this reason they set steep prices on outposts such as Callisto, even while the owners had to conceal the trade, hiding the Silicytes whenever inspectors arrived. You see, Jordan?" Tarnuff said, closing the doors. " And that's only part of 'em. I've got over a hundred aboard. Feel free to set the pistol aside—you won’t need it. He moved past Ron and back to the control room. Ron trailed behind, weighing the sudden peril that now surrounded him. The situation was perilous, as the Patrol had stationed a special contingent in the asteroid lanes to tackle the Silicyte smuggling that had spiked to unprecedented levels over the past year. "Tarnuff was right—he could not bring the ship back to Earth, and if a Patrol cruiser intercepted them in space, he’d soon be keeping Carl company in the Venus prison swamp." No he wouldn't, either! Worse than that. Caught red‑handed smuggling Silicytes would result in the death penalty. Well, it's your move, Jordan." The Martian’s tone and whole demeanor reflected amused complacency. He stepped to the controls. " Shall I re-chart for Earth?" " No!" The word came explosively, and Ron was immediately sorry. Tarnuff chuckled. " I thought not. Well?" " “We will continue on to Callisto,” Ron said, though the finality in his voice was hollow. It's nearer. " Tarnuff was still unperturbed. " Oh, I see. And there you turn me over to the authorities, eh? Well, Jordan, that means you’re going to cut your own throat; I meant what I said—you’re in this with me now. Ron stood motionless, frowning and indecisive. Tarnuff's voice was suddenly serious. " Come, Jordan, you're in a spot and you know it. So am I—I want to get these Silicytes through safely. So I'll make you a proposition. Come in this with me! I know how to land them on Callisto and dispose of them. We'll have the cash an hour after we land there. I had planned this to be my final run—each leg grows more perilous—but I know where to procure another hundred, and with your help we can smuggle them through safely. We'll split fifty-fifty. " Ron smiled thinly, indicating the pistols in his belt. " You're in a tough spot to be saying that, Tarnuff. If I wanted the Silicytes I'd take 'em all. I refuse to be involved in any of your dirty business. The Martian's weathered smile turned into a grim, dark frown. Oh. Just like your brother, eh? So when we approach Callisto this time tomorrow, what comes next? Maybe you'll be joining your brother. People say the Venus swamp delivers a slow, hideous death. Some men prefer the swift execution of the Ray‑chamber to the slow, hideous torment of the Venus swamp. He had come out here to clear Carl, he’d waited a long, weary month for the opportunity, and then he had bungled it. Tarnuff pressed his advantage. " Because you’re so keen to stay within Earth‑made law, I can only offer one other way to escape this stalemate. A way which I, personally, prefer. But I wonder if you would dare?" Ron narrowed his gaze on Tarnuff, disliking the smile that had reappeared on his face—a mockingly challenging grin. Tarnuff went on: "In Earth terms, I would much prefer to get you out of my hair and keep our course to Callisto clear." As the situation stands, he glanced sharply at Ron’s hand—hovering near the weapons—“you’re at the helm of this ship right now.” On the other hand you need my signature on this statement to clear your brother of his sentence. | Janus stopped to snatch up a fallen flame-pistol, then they were leaping away across the square. But they didn't get far. Now, instead of just a few dozen, hordes of Proktols were rushing toward the scene. The entire square reverberated with their shrill cries, drawing others in. The Earthmen didn’t even have time to wonder where they all had come from. While most of them were unarmed, smaller savage Proktols, a handful of others armed with flame‑pistols were trying to press forward. “While the men swept their blazing fire around, the Proktol savages recoiled in shrieking panic.” Hundreds of the creatures were blasted to ash, yet new swarms kept pouring in. The Earthmen realized that, in just a few seconds, the sheer mass of the creatures would overwhelm them. Still, they pressed forward, slowly lighting their path with blazing fire. For some foolhardy reason, Devries recalled shouting at Janus, “These flame‑pistols are just toys.” Wish I had an atom-blast!" Then the shrill, copper‑hued devils swarmed close, claws flashing. Janus lobbed another batch of flame‑charges in a sweeping blast, and Devries mirrored him, though the charges were rapidly losing power. Then the Earthmen stared. The savages were no longer pressing against them; instead, they were fleeing. Oddly, they watched the space ahead of them open up. They watched a clean, uninterrupted sweep of Proktols crumple, as if a mower had neatly trimmed a field of grain. Those who escaped the fall ran in wild desperation, shrieking in thin terror at a death that seemed to hover unseen. The men were baffled by the strange turn of events, yet they seized the miraculous opening and rushed across the square. However, the larger Proktols were no longer bound by superstition. With no obstacles in their way, a dozen of them leapt to intercept. But before the Proktols could raise their flame‑pistols, they too toppled, split cleanly in two! The chaos receded; the men paused, catching their breath. Janus, what on earth could that possibly be? What happened?" " Pure luck! I was sure my lucky charm could never fail! Just then, a figure emerged from the building’s dark silhouette and rushed toward them. It was a familiar face, clutching two atom‑blasts, and he thrust one into Devries’ hands. Luck nothing!" Devries yelled, recognizing him. " It's Ross! How did you escape? We assumed you had perished aboard the Wasp. Not quite," Ross said. " Come on, this isn’t a picnic! We must escape before those devils stop wondering what an atom‑blast is. The men turned, sprinting toward the open street beyond. They hadn't even taken five steps when Devries felt a crushing, numbing weight pressing on his brain. He stumbled, collapsed to his knees, and though he strained to rise, he could not. He collapsed to the ground, an unseen hand weighing on him with the crushing force of a giant. Agonizingly, he wondered why no one had come to his aid, and then he saw that the others too were lying flat, dazed and panting heavily. With great effort, Devries twisted his head and scanned the square. He saw the enormous Brain beneath its shimmering glass dome. It pulsed with a scorching, wrathful crimson glow. Devries realized that the Brain’s immense psychic power was reaching out and crushing them there. His right hand, still holding the atom‑blast, lay beneath him. Desperately, he managed to shift it by about an inch. It seemed to weigh a ton. With all his strength, Devries slid his hand around until the atom‑blast was aimed at the Brain across the square. Using his last ounce of strength, he pressed the power button and held it there. Devries was sure of his aim, but the dome covering the Brain was made of a far tougher material than he'd imagined. Even after holding the weapon there at full power for roughly five seconds, it failed to blast. But the Brain surely sensed the looming threat. A great surge of anger rose, and both atom‑blasts were suddenly ripped from Devries' and Ross's hands. Then the same unseen force that had pinned them against the pavement jerked the men back to their feet. The Brain, still pulsing with rage, kept them trapped beneath its relentless psychic hold until a dozen official Proktols arrived to seize them; only then did it let its fierce thought‑force slacken. Janus and Devries, this time joined by Ross, hurried back toward the building they had just escaped from. Gazing upward, Devries watched the enormous, emerald‑lit Neptune surge into the sky and felt the day return in full force. Hordes of savage Proktols surged back into the square, poised for their ritual, an endless cycle that would endure as long as victims remained. "What a shame you had to come here, Ross," De vries said flatly. He was utterly without hope now. They had come razor‑close to escape, only to be snared by that diabolical Brain. Devries was merely wondering how he might die—not in the same way Ketrik had—when a great cry sprang up from the gathered throng behind them. The cry was one of fear or awe. Even though the wiry arms clamped around them, the men twisted, turning to look back. Skimming low over the city, a rocket‑plane surged toward them. And it was unmistakably an Earth‑made aircraft. The Proktols gripped the three men, chattering excitedly in their staccato language, then hurried toward the nearest building and crouched inside. It seemed as though they’d seen this rocket‑plane before, and a chill of dread swept through them. The Proktols crowding the square also tried to flee, but before they could all disperse a plane swooped over them and unleashed a wide swath of death. Based on what they could see, the Earthmen judged that the rocket‑plane was armed with a portable atom‑blast almost as large as those carried by the Patrol ships. It swept across the square once, veered sharply, and returned. On this occasion the atom‑blast skimmed perilously along the line of buildings where the men had taken cover. Their captors broke free and fled for shelter. Yet freedom remained out of reach for the Earthmen. While crouched, they watched their mysterious savior and again felt the Brain’s fierce surge of power. It alone did not flee. It stayed on its platform, square‑centered in the now‑deserted area. Now, even more furious than before, it blazed with a crimson, crackling brilliance. The Brain was the target of the rocket‑plane's attack. For the third, fourth, and even fifth time, the plane swept back over the square. Every time it struck again, the Earthmen could sense a fragment of the Brain’s crushing psychic blast hurled upward toward them. Invisible weapon against invisible weapon. Atom-blast versus the Brain's super mental-force! And the Brain fought tenaciously. Its power was so great that the rocket‑plane was pulled into its grip, spun wildly, and nearly brought down—until an extra burst of rockets forced it to zoom away. The watching Earthmen felt the surge as well, and were thrown, bruised and battered, against the building where they had taken cover. But as the plane’s atom‑blast began to gain range, the Brain surged toward the shelter of a nearby building. It radiated fury, yet its mind was sharp and deliberate. It sensed the danger posed by the atom‑blast. The Brain was encased in a clear dome of exceptionally tough material, though it would have crumbled after just a handful of focused, high‑power blasts. Only after the Brain slipped away did the tension loosen, allowing the men to dare once more to cross the square, now littered with ghastly ruins of countless Proktols. This time they were not apprehended. The eerie jet streaked into the desert, its retreat hidden beneath the sheer devastation—so complete that the surviving Proktols neither felt the urge nor the courage to surface. Devries spotted one of the atom‑blasts that either he or Ross had left behind. He snatched the atom‑blast, halted, and glanced back with a cautious curiosity, feeling its weight seethe in his grasp. Janus pulled at him. " Come on— you can never predict when luck will actually show up! Yes, but I’d like to aim a solid blast at that Brain for all the way it slapped and battered us around. Against his will, Devries trailed behind them, stumbling along. Have you got the Wasp?" Finally, Janus managed to turn to Ross and ask him. I didn’t get here by traveling through the fourth dimension. It's in the desert, roughly a mile away from here. I had a close call when they turned that flame on the Wasp. | 0.7 | Adventure stories | Hasse, Henry | Hasse, Henry | 62042 | 61950 | Hasse, Henry_[Le Horror Altissime]_1500_3_0.4 | Hasse, Henry_[Proktols of Neptune]_1500_7_0.8 |
You will think differently to-morrow—you do not really love Carstares. " She shut her mouth obstinately, tilting her regal little head. He watched her anxiously. "If you really do love him, 'tis ridiculous to elope with me," he said. Her fingers tightened on his wrist. "But I must! You don't understand, Harry! You must take me! Don't you want me?" "Of course I do, but not if you are longing to be somewhere else all the time. The whole thing seems preposterous! " "'Tis all dreadful!—dreadful! I have never been so unhappy in my life! I—oh, I wish I had not been so heedless and selfish! " Lovelace pondered for a moment, as they stood outside her box; then, seeing that people were returning to their seats, he opened the door and took her in. "Listen, dear! This is the maddest scheme ever I heard; but if you are determined, you shall carry it through. Come to my lodgings to-morrow evening! Bring as little baggage as possible; I will have all ready, and we will post at once to Dover. Then in time I hope you will forget Richard and come to care for me a little. " "You are very, very good, Harry! Yes, I will do just as you say and, oh, I am sorry to put you out like this! I am nought but a plague to everyone, and I wish I were dead! You don't really love me, and I shall be a burden! " "I do indeed love you!" he assured her, but within himself he could not help wishing that he had not fallen quite so passionately in love with her. "I'll leave you now, sweet, for your husband will be returning at any moment." He kissed her hands lightly "_ A demain_, fairest! " How she sat through the last act Lavinia could never afterwards imagine. She was longing to be at home—so soon to be home no longer—and quiet. Her head ached now as Richard's had ached for weeks. More than anything did she want to rest it against her husband's shoulder, so temptingly near, and to feel his sheltering arms about her. But Dick was in love with Isabella Fanshawe, and she must sit straight and stiff in her chair and smile at the proper places. At last the play was ended! The curtain descended on the bowing Archer, and the house stamped and clapped its appreciation. The curtain rose again—what! not finished yet? Ah, no! it was but Garrick leading Mrs. Clive forward. Would they never have done? Mrs. Fleming was standing; she supposed they were going, and got up. Someone put her cloak about her shoulders; Richard—for the last time. Mr. Holt escorted her to her coach, and put her and her cousin into it. He and Mr. Fleming had their chairs; so only Richard and Tracy went with the ladies. The Flemings were staying with friends in Brook Street, just off Grosvenor Square, so that when they had put Harriet down, only a few more yards remained to be covered. Lavinia wondered dully why Tracy had elected to come with them. What did he want? Was he going to warn Dick of her intended flight? He little knew the true state of affairs! At the foot of the staircase at Wyncham House she turned to say good-night. She merely nodded to Tracy, but to Dick she extended her hand. He took it in his, kissing it, and she noticed how cold were his fingers, how burning hot his lips. Then he released her, and she went slowly up the stairs to her room. His Grace watched her through his eyeglass. When she was out of sight he turned and surveyed Richard critically. "If that is the way you kiss a woman, Lavinia has my sympathies," he remarked. Richard's lips tightened. He picked up a stand of lighted candles and ushered his Grace into the drawing-room. "I presume you did not come to tell me that?" he asked. "Your presumption is correct, Richard. I have come to open your eyes. " "You are too kind. " His Grace laid his hat on the table, and sat down on the arm of a chair. "I think perhaps I am. It may interest you to hear that Lavinia intends to elope with our gallant friend the Captain." Richard bowed. "You knew it?" "Certainly. " Andover looked him over. "May I ask what steps you are taking to prevent her?" "None. " His Grace's expression was quite indescribable. For a moment he was speechless, and then he reverted to heavy sarcasm. "Pray remember to be at hand—to conduct her to her chair!" he drawled. "Upon my soul, you sicken me! "I am grieved. There is a remedy," replied Carstares significantly. Tracy ignored the suggestion. "I suppose it is nothing to you that you lose her? No; It is nothing to you that she disgraces her name? Oh, no!" "My name, I think. " "Our name! Is it possible for her to disgrace yours?" Richard went white and his hand flew instinctively to his sword hilt. Tracy looked at him. "Do you think I would soil my blade with you?" he asked, very softly. Richard's hand fell from the hilt: his eyes searched the other's face. "You know?" he asked at last, quite calmly. "You fool," answered his Grace gently. "You fool, do you think I have not always known?" Richard leaned against the mantel-shelf. "You never thought I was innocent? You knew that night? You guessed?" The Duke sneered. "Knowing both, could I suspect other than you?" he asked insultingly. "Oh, my God!" cried Carstares suddenly. "Why could you not have said so before?" The Duke's eyes opened wide. "It has chafed you—eh? I knew it would. I've watched you." He chuckled beneath his breath. "And those fools never looked beneath the surface. One and all, they believed that John would cheat. John! They swallowed it tamely and never even guessed at the truth. " "You, at least, did not believe?" "I? Hardly. Knowing you for a weak fool and him for a quixotic fool, I rather jumped to conclusions. " "Instead, you tried to throw the blame on him. I would to God you had exposed me! " "So you have remarked. I confess I do not understand this heroic attitude. Why should I interfere in what was none of my business? What proof had I?" "Why did you raise no demur? What motive had you?" "I should have thought it fairly obvious. " Richard stared at him, puzzled. "Gad, Richard! but you are singularly obtuse. Have I not pointed out that John was a quixotic fool? When did I say he was a weak one?" "You mean—you mean you wanted Lavinia to marry me—because you thought to squeeze me as you willed?" asked Carstares slowly. His Grace's thin nostrils wrinkled up. "You are so crude," he complained. "It suited you that Jack should be disgraced? You thought I should seize his money. You—you—" "Rogue? But you will admit that I at least am an honest rogue. You are—er—a dishonest saint. I would sooner be what I am. " "I know there is nothing on God's earth more vile than I am!" replied Carstares, violently. His Grace sneered openly. "Very pretty, Richard, but a little tardy, methinks." He paused, and something seemed to occur to him. "'Tis why you purpose to let Lavinia go, I suppose? You confess the truth on Friday—eh?" Richard bowed his head. "I have not the right to stop her. She—chooses her own road. " "She knows?" sharply. "She has always known. " "The jade! And I never guessed it!" He paused. "Yes, I understand your heroic attitude. I am sorry I cannot pander to it. In spite of all this, I cannot permit my sister to ruin herself. " "She were as effectually ruined an she stayed with me. " "Pshaw! After seven years, who is like to care one way or the other which of you cheated? Play the man for once and stop her! " "She loves Lovelace, I tell you! " "What of it? She will recover from that. " "No—I cannot ask her to stay with me—'twould be damnably selfish. " His Grace appeared exasperated. "'Fore Gad, you are a fool! Ask her! Ask her! Force her! Kick Lovelace from your house and abandon the heroic pose, I beg of you! " "Do you suppose I want to lose her?" cried Carstares. "'Tis because I love her so much that I will not stand in the way of her happiness!" The Duke flung round and picked up his hat. "I am sorry I cannot join with you in your heroics. I must take the matter into my own hands, as usual, it seems. Lord, but you should have learnt to make her obey you, my good Dick! | Glenister gazed out over the harbor, agleam with the lights of anchored ships, then up at the crenelated mountains, black against the sky. He drank the cool air burdened with its taints of the sea, while the blood of his boyhood leaped within him. "Oh, it's fine—fine," he murmured, "and this is my country—my country, after all, Dex. It's in my veins, this hunger for the North. I grow. I expand. " "Careful you don't bust," warned Dextry. "I've seen men get plumb drunk on mountain air. Don't expand too strong in one spot." He went back abruptly to his pipe, its villanous fumes promptly averting any danger of the air's too tonic quality. "Gad! What a smudge!" sniffed the younger man. "You ought to be in quarantine. " "I'd ruther smell like a man than talk like a kid. You desecrate the hour of meditation with rhapsodies on nature when your æsthetics ain't honed up to the beauties of good tobacco. " The other laughed, inflating his deep chest. In the gloom he stretched his muscles restlessly, as though an excess of vigor filled him. They were lounging upon the dock, while before them lay the _Santa Maria_ ready for her midnight sailing. Behind slept Unalaska, quaint, antique, and Russian, rusting amid the fogs of Bering Sea. Where, a week before, mild-eyed natives had dried their cod among the old bronze cannon, now a frenzied horde of gold-seekers paused in their rush to the new El Dorado. They had come like a locust cloud, thousands strong, settling on the edge of the Smoky Sea, waiting the going of the ice that barred them from their Golden Fleece—from Nome the new, where men found fortune in a night. The mossy hills back of the village were ridged with graves of those who had died on the out-trip the fall before, when a plague had gripped the land—but what of that? Gold glittered in the sands, so said the survivors; therefore men came in armies. Glenister and Dextry had left Nome the autumn previous, the young man raving with fever. Now they returned to their own land. "This air whets every animal instinct in me," Glenister broke out again. "Away from the cities I turn savage. I feel the old primitive passions—the fret for fighting. " "Mebbe you'll have a chance. " "How so?" "Well, it's this way. I met Mexico Mullins this mornin'. You mind old Mexico, don't you? The feller that relocated Discovery Claim on Anvil Creek last summer?" "You don't mean that 'tin-horn' the boys were going to lynch for claim-jumping?" "Identical! Remember me tellin' you about a good turn I done him once down Guadalupe way?" "Greaser shooting-scrape, wasn't it? " "Yep! Well, I noticed first off that he's gettin' fat; high-livin' fat, too, all in one spot, like he was playin' both ends ag'in the centre. Also he wore di'mon's fit to handle with ice-tongs. "Says I, lookin' at his side elevation, 'What's accented your middle syllable so strong, Mexico?' "'Prosperity, politics, an' the Waldorf-Astorier,' says he. It seems Mex hadn't forgot old days. He claws me into a corner an' says, 'Bill, I'm goin' to pay you back for that Moralez deal.' "'It ain't comin' to me,' says I. ' That's a bygone!' "'Listen here,' says he, an', seein' he was in earnest, I let him run on. "'How much do you value that claim o' yourn at?' "'Hard tellin',' says I. 'If she holds out like she run last fall, there'd ought to be a million clear in her.' "'How much 'll you clean up this summer?' "''Bout four hundred thousand, with luck.' "'Bill,' says he, 'there's hell a-poppin' an' you've got to watch that ground like you'd watch a rattle-snake. Don't never leave 'em get a grip on it or you're down an' out.' "He was so plumb in earnest it scared me up, 'cause Mexico ain't a gabby man. "'What do you mean?' says I. "'I can't tell you nothin' more. I'm puttin' a string on my own neck, sayin' this much. You're a square man, Bill, an' I'm a gambler, but you saved my life oncet, an' I wouldn't steer you wrong. For God's sake, don't let 'em jump your ground, that's all.' "'Let who jump it? Congress has give us judges an' courts an' marshals—' I begins. "'That's just it. How you goin' to buck that hand? Them's the best cards in the deck. There's a man comin' by the name of McNamara. Watch him clost. I can't tell you no more. But don't never let 'em get a grip on your ground.' That's all he'd say. " "Bah! He's crazy! I wish somebody would try to jump the Midas; we'd enjoy the exercise. " The siren of the _Santa Maria_ interrupted, its hoarse warning throbbing up the mountain. "We'll have to get aboard," said Dextry. "Sh-h! What's that?" the other whispered. At first the only sound they heard was a stir from the deck of the steamer. Then from the water below them came the rattle of rowlocks and a voice cautiously muffled. "Stop! Stop there! " A skiff burst from the darkness, grounding on the beach beneath. A figure scrambled out and up the ladder leading to the wharf. Immediately a second boat, plainly in pursuit of the first one, struck on the beach behind it. As the escaping figure mounted to their level the watchers perceived with amazement that it was a young woman. Breath sobbed from her lungs, and, stumbling, she would have fallen but for Glenister, who ran forward and helped her to her feet. "Don't let them get me," she panted. He turned to his partner in puzzled inquiry, but found that the old man had crossed to the head of the landing ladder up which the pursuers were climbing. "Just a minute—you there! Back up or I'll kick your face in." Dextry's voice was sharp and unexpected, and in the darkness he loomed tall and menacing to those below. "Get out of the way. That woman's a runaway," came from the one highest on the ladder. "So I jedge. " "She broke qu—" "Shut up!" broke in another. "Do you want to advertise it? Get out of the way, there, ye damn fool! Climb up, Thorsen." He spoke like a bucko mate, and his words stirred the bile of Dextry. Thorsen grasped the dock floor, trying to climb up, but the old miner stamped on his fingers and the sailor loosened his hold with a yell, carrying the under men with him to the beach in his fall. "This way! Follow me!" shouted the mate, making up the bank for the shore end of the wharf. "You'd better pull your freight, miss," Dextry remarked; "they'll be here in a minute." "Yes, yes! Let us go! I must get aboard the _Santa Maria_. She's leaving now. Come, come! " Glenister laughed, as though there were a humorous touch in her remark, but did not stir. "I'm gettin' awful old an' stiff to run," said Dextry, removing his mackinaw, "but I allow I ain't too old for a little diversion in the way of a rough-house when it comes nosin' around." He moved lightly, though the girl could see in the half-darkness that his hair was silvery. "What do you mean?" she questioned, sharply. "You hurry along, miss; we'll toy with 'em till you're aboard." They stepped across to the dock-house, backing against it. The girl followed. Again came the warning blast from the steamer, and the voice of an officer: "Clear away that stern line! " "Oh, we'll be left!" she breathed, and somehow it struck Glenister that she feared this more than the men whose approaching feet he heard. "You can make it all right," he urged her, roughly. "You'll get hurt if you stay here. Run along and don't mind us. We've been thirty days on shipboard, and were praying for something to happen." His voice was boyishly glad, as if he exulted in the fray that was to come; and no sooner had he spoken than the sailors came out of the darkness upon them. During the space of a few heart-beats there was only a tangle of whirling forms with the sound of fist on flesh, then the blot split up and forms plunged outward, falling heavily. Again the sailors rushed, attempting to clinch. They massed upon Dextry only to grasp empty air, for he shifted with remarkable agility, striking bitterly, as an old wolf snaps. | 0 | Historical fiction | Heyer, Georgette | Beach, Rex | 38703 | 51840 | Heyer, Georgette_[The Black Moth: A Romance of the 18th Century]_1500_52 | Beach, Rex_[The Spoilers]_1500_1 |
And she wheeled round and stared with blanching cheeks, as if he were still standing there before her with his secret betrayed in his eyes. "Oh!" she repeated under her breath. How her mistaken romancings about his sadness had misled her woman's instinct! For now, like steel filings round a magnet, a swarm of happenings since he came ranged round that telltale look of his—where they belonged. VII Basil was last in to supper, came with his nervousness plain in his features. His uneasy glance at her met a smile of ingenuous friendliness that could not but reassure. Richard was there, absent-minded as usual, and unconscious of them both. They were unconscious of him also, Basil no less so than she, for he had long since acquired the habit of the household. No one spoke until Richard, having finished, lighted a cigarette and fell to explaining to Basil an experiment he had made that day. He was full of it, illustrated his points with diagrams drawn on the yellow pad which was never far from his hand. Courtney, relieved of the necessity of trying to look natural before Basil, was able to turn her thoughts again to the subject that had been occupying her steadily from the moment she discovered his secret. If Gallatin could have seen into her mind, he would have been as nearly scandalized as it is possible for an infatuated, unsatisfied lover to be. For even where a man feels he himself has the right to revolt against exasperating musts and must nots of conventional morality, he is unusual indeed if he honestly approves any such revolt, however timid, in a woman. Man is the author and guardian of that morality; in the division of labor he has imposed upon woman the duty of being its exemplar. Thus, though human, she must pretend not to be; she must stifle if possible, conceal at any cost, her human fondness for the free and the frank. For Courtney there was double attraction in this love of Basil's—because it was love for her and because she was lonely—how lonely she had never realised until now. There is the loneliness of physical solitude, the loneliness for company—and a great unhappiness it is, especially to those who approach the lower animals in lack of resources within themselves. Courtney had never suffered from this; she had never cared for "just people." Then there is the loneliness of soul solitude, the loneliness for comradeship—and who suffers from this suffers torment. It may lull, but it will surely rage again, and it will never cease until it is satisfied or the heart itself ceases to beat. This was the loneliness of Courtney Vaughan. "If he," thought she, "were bad, and I, too—no, perhaps not exactly bad, but—well, different—less—less conscientious—how happy we might be! That is, of course, if I cared for him—or could make myself believe I did—which is impossible." She lingered over this impossible supposition as over a sweet, fantastic dream. She dropped it and turned away, only to return to it. And thinking of it filled her with the same tender sadness she got from love stories and love songs. "I would not if I could, I could not if I would, but—" Love! Into the silence of that void in her life had come a sound. It was the right word, but not the right voice. Still, there was joy in the right word. And she would not have been human had she bent other than kindly eyes and kindly thoughts upon the man who pronounced that word of words. Long since—from her first notion that he was hiding a romantic secret—his real self had begun to receive from her imagination the transfiguring veil of illusion. The discovery that she herself was the secret certainly did not make the veil thinner. A strong imagination flings out this beautiful, trouble-making drapery always; not quite so eagerly if there has been sad warning experience, but none the less inevitably. It would be many a day, if ever, before Courtney could again see Basil Gallatin as he was in reality. As she sat there, silent, all but oblivious of her immediate surroundings, she was awakened by hearing him say, in reply to something from Richard: "But I'm afraid I'll have to—to change my plans—and—go away." It was said hesitatingly, with much effort. "Go away!" cried Richard. Courtney could not have spoken. "I'm afraid so. " "Not for good?" "Probably—in fact, almost certainly. " "Why, man, you can't do that!" protested Dick. "You can't leave me in the lurch. " "Oh, I want to keep my interest. It's simply that I can't stay on, myself. " "But I need you now as much as I need the capital. Why, it'd upset everything for a year—perhaps longer. I couldn't easily find a competent man I could trust. " Basil repeated in a final, dogged way, "It's impossible for me to stay. " "Is there anything unsatisfactory in——" "No—no indeed. My own affairs entirely, I assure you. " As he had finished supper, Vaughan took him out on the veranda, where Courtney heard them—or, rather, heard Dick—arguing and protesting. Presently she drifted into the sitting room, sat at the piano, let her fingers wander soundlessly over the keys. What should she do? What was best for him—for her—"and there's Richard, too, who needs him." Why should he go? How would it help matters? True, she had declared that to be the right course; but then she was merely theorizing, merely talking the conventional thing. This was no theory, but actuality, calling for good common sense. It was not the first time she had found the facts of life making mockery of the most convincing theories about it. Presently she felt that Basil was in the window farthest from her, was watching her—probably with the same loving, despairing expression she had often seen without a suspicion that it was for her. "Where's Richard?" inquired she, not looking in his direction. "In the library. " "You've upset him dreadfully. " "I'm sorry. But things will soon adjust themselves." He advanced a step, was visible now in the half darkness, looked pallidly handsome in his becoming dinner suit. "A few weeks at most," he went on, somewhat huskily, "and I'll be the vaguest sort of a memory here. " She was glad her back was toward him and that the twilight had darkened into dusk. Of course, he did not really love her. It was simply another case of a man's being isolated with a woman and his head getting full of sentimental fancies. Still— While his love was not real, and therefore its pain largely imaginary, the pain no doubt seemed real, and the love, too. So she was sad for him—very sad. As soon as she felt sure of her voice, she said: "Won't you please light the big lamp for me? I wore a negligee this evening because I wanted to sew. I'm making a suit for Winchie—like one I saw in a French magazine. " He lit the lamp beside the table where she worked in the evenings when she did not go to her own room. "Anything else?" he asked. "Only sit and talk to me. " "I couldn't talk this evening. " "Then sit and smoke. " She began her work, he smoking in the deep shadow near the window. She could hardly see him; he could see every wave and ripple in her lovely hair, every shift of the sweeping dark lashes, every change in that sweet, small face, in the wide wistful mouth. Even better than playing on the piano, sewing brings out the charm of delicate, skillful fingers. She did not need to look at him to feel his gaze, its longing, its hopelessness. And never before had she thought of him in such a partial, personal way—the way a woman must feel toward the man she knows loves her, even though she only likes him. She had made up her mind what to do, how to deal practically with this situation. But she had to struggle with her timidity before she could set about the audacious experiment she had planned and resolved. She had long had the frankness of thought that is inseparable from intelligence. The courage to speak her thoughts was as yet in the bud. "Do you mind my speaking again of what you were saying this afternoon?" said she as she sewed industriously. "No," said he. "I've been thinking about it. At first I was startled—very much startled. But I soon began to look at it sensibly. I want you to stay. Richard wants you to stay. There's no reason why you shouldn't stay and conquer your delusion. | He could see the sycamore under which he had lain whilst conning his Virgil and labouring through Ovid; and then the whole vision passed away, and he was looking at the reality of his life on a fine October morning, with Skillanscar and Helbeck towering to the sky, and the man whose life he had saved amongst those very rocks and crags walking beside him, waiting for him to proceed. "He knew more than is usual with persons of his class," went on Mr. Aggland, "and he taught me to love learning as he did—to love it for its own sake, not for the sake of any money it might bring, of any advantage that might accrue from it. What he meant me to be, whether a schoolmaster like himself, or a clerk, or a labourer, I do not know, for at sixteen I had the misfortune to meet with a rich gentleman who took an interest in me. It happened in this way. My father had a brother living in a little seaport in Wales. He was a tailor, and pretty well to do, and he used to make us welcome to spend a week with him every summer, as the holidays came round. It was the last day of our stay, and I was hanging about the shore loth to leave the sea, for I loved it, when all at once there was a cry and a shout, and I saw a boy who had been bathing washed away by a wave and disappear. I guessed in a minute how it was; the lad had gone out beyond his depth, and could not swim. There were places where the sea deepened suddenly, and he had dropped on one of them. I did not know who he was, and if I had it would have made no difference; one life is as valuable as another I think now, and I suppose I thought the same then, if I thought at all. One boy is as good as another, whether he be the son of a king or the son of a peasant. I did not know who he was, and God is witness that, not knowing, I risked my life to save him willingly. " "And you did save him?" asked Captain Stondon. "I ran a race with the sea for him," answered Mr. Aggland, a flush overspreading his hollow cheeks; "I fought for him, I got mad with the waves for trying to beat me out. Though it is thirty years since—thirty years within a trifle—I can remember, as if it was but yesterday, looking out over the waves seaward, and thinking I could follow him to Ireland, if need were, sooner than the waters should beat me. He went down twice. As he rose the third time I had him. I stretched my arm out over a wave and caught him. I could not have brought him back to land; but looking over the water, not towards Ireland this time, I saw help coming; and I kept him up till we were both pulled into the boat that had pushed off after me. I liked the sea up to that minute, sir; I have hated it ever since. I could not put into words what I thought about it as I struggled to keep him and myself afloat till the boat came. I have never had a bad illness since, when that minute has not been reproduced for my benefit. I suppose it was fear came over me; but I seemed to be in the power of some cruel enemy, with whom I could not reason, against whom I could not struggle; I felt as if I was alone in the world out there—alone with the waters round and about me. I remember trying to hold on by the waves, and then after that there was a blank. " "Did they recover both of you?" asked Captain Stondon. "Yes—but they had hard work bringing the boy to life again. He was a small delicate lad, though two years older than myself; a motherless lad, an only son—the heir to a great property. His name was Worton; and from the time he opened his eyes that day when I fought for him with the sea, till the hour when I closed the lids over them in Ischia, he never could bear me to leave him. And I never did leave him. "Mr. Worton, who had seen the whole of the accident, was grateful, more grateful than there was any necessity for, and he offered to take me and bring me up with his own boy and provide for me, and allow my father a small annuity. "If we had asked half his fortune, I think he would have given it to us, when he heard his son speak again. He need not have been so liberal as he was, and I have often wished since he had let us alone; but it seemed a fine thing to us then, and I went back with them to Worton Court as Master Reginald's friend—companion—what you will. "We led an awfully idle life. All Mr. Worton's time was devoted to thinking what would best please his son; all Master Reginald's time was taken up trying to keep himself out of the grave. As Burns says, 'he met every face with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam: "Come, curse me that East wind, and come, defy me the North."' It was such a labour to him to live, that I have often wondered since he did not wish to "'Set up his everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From his world-wearied flesh.' But he desired nothing of the kind. He enjoyed existence as much as I have ever known any one. He used to like lying on the sofa in the winter time; lying on the grass in the summer. He liked being read to, he liked to hear music; he was fond of travelling by very slow stages, in a very easy carriage; he enjoyed society, and he loved me. "We loved one another," went on Mr. Aggland, after a pause. "'We were so mixed as meeting streams, for he was I, I he.' The day came when they tried to separate us, tried to make me believe he would be better without me—tried to make him believe I was no fit companion for him; but we could not part till death took him, and then I stood in the world alone. They had made me what I was. Reginald had a tutor, but we never learnt anything—never were expected to learn. All my life had been for eight years spent in keeping him alive; for eight years I did nothing but that; for eight years I read, but never studied. I amused him, but never worked myself. I stood between him and a woman who wanted to become his stepmother; and at the end of that time, at twenty-four years of age, I was cast adrift, with a fair library of books, and fifty pounds in my pocket. The poor fellow had left me all his mother's small property, four thousand pounds; but there were such things said of me by that cruel woman, and Reginald's deluded father, that I flung the legacy to them, and, shaking the dust from my feet, left the house for ever. Mr. Worton would have had me back. He offered me money, he offered me any apology I chose to ask. He offered to 'advance my views;' but I cursed him and his patronage too, cursed the day he took me from my own station, and gave me a taste for luxuries I could never command. "'You have had the best years of my life,' I finished; 'you have unfitted me for work; you have made me as useless as if I had been born a gentleman. You let them try to turn your son's heart against me; and when they failed in that, you allow them to saddle his legacy with such slanders as force me, for my own credit's sake, to go out into the world a beggar, rather than be beholden to the bounty of my dead friend. And all for what? All because a woman wants to marry you; all because you want an heir to Worton Court—an heir that I hope, and pray, and believe will never be born to you. For God is just, and He will not forget Reginald, and He will not forget me.' " "Hard words," said his auditor. "They were too hard," answered Mr. Aggland,—"too hard to speak to a misguided, childish old man. I thought about them afterwards, till I could bear the recollection no longer, and wrote to apologise, to retract. | 0 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Graham, John | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan | 48699 | 71357 | Graham, John_[The Hungry Heart: A Novel]_1500_23 | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan_[Papuan Pictures]_1500_16 |
She said: "I'm sure it's no use asking him; he's sure to be away on Sundays." I said that A usually spent Sundays at Littlehampton. "Or perhaps along the Thames," Lady Maria said. She mentioned that she hadn't seen the Housmans in a year. She learned that Mr. Housman had severed ties with all his former friends. Letter from Guy Cunninghame to Mrs. Caryl – Monday, May 30th. Dear Elsie, I’ve been dreadful at keeping in touch, and it’s been two weeks since I last wrote to you. I received your letter last week and was utterly delighted by everything you wrote. That Sunday week, I stayed with Edith at a family party, and it was rather fun all the same. I visited the opera twice during this week and once the week before. Nothing very exciting. The Housmans have not acquired a box this year. Yesterday I spent the day at Staines with them. Except for Miss Housman, no one else was present. Thank heavens Mrs Fairburn isn’t here! By the way, George has no idea whatsoever about Bert’s infidelities. I think he regards him as a model husband. He’s still feeling low, but his spirits lift a little because he’s very busy. He has been socializing more frequently, a development that is welcome, and he has also taken to hosting foreign dignitaries and official guests. Rumors now abound that he is set to marry Lavinia Wray, a story that has only just entered the mainstream. They are somewhat out of date. In fact, Lavinia has chosen to pursue nursing, but she hasn't yet told her relatives. I think Louise will get her divorce. They have departed Italy and relocated to Russia, where Lavroff now owns a sizeable estate. I’m in for an incredibly busy week next week, with dinners nearly every night and balls alike. You needn't be surprised if I remain silent for a while. Yrs. G. From the Diary of Godfrey Mellor – Monday, May 30th. Heard to-day from Gertrude. She and Anstruther will be arriving next week to begin a three‑month leave from Buenos Aires. They intend to lodge at the Hans Crescent Hotel. Anstruther does not anticipate returning to Buenos Aires. They hope to reach Christiania or Belgrade. They have asked me to inform Aunt Ruth and Uncle Arthur of their arrival, a reminder I must not forget because Gertrude is Aunt Ruth’s favourite niece. Tuesday, May_ 31st. A is in very poor health. He says he has a bad headache, yet he must attend an official dinner tonight. He is also deeply vexed that he has been selected as a delegate for the upcoming Conference in Canada this August. He says this will keep him from yachting this year, since he won’t return until the end of September. Wednesday, June_ 1st. When Riley dropped by my office, he asked if I could accommodate him for a few nights. I would gladly accept, but I warned him that most of my meals would be with Solway, who is in London for the week. Thursday, June_ 2nd. After dinner I went to Aunt Ruth’s and remembered to mention that Gertrude would be arriving next week. Aunt Ruth was delighted to hear the news and said she hoped Edmund would receive a promotion this time. He had been overlooked so many times. I replied that I too hoped it would, but I feared I had shown too little enthusiasm, as Aunt Ruth remarked that I seemed uninterested in my brother‑in‑law’s career. I told her that I cared for Gertrude and held my brother‑in‑law in the highest esteem. Uncle Arthur asked, “What about Anstruther?” The man's a pompous ass." Aunt Ruth appeared noticeably startled. Friday, July_ 3rd. Solway has arrived in London. He is residing on St Leonard’s Terrace in Chelsea. He's taking me to a concert tomorrow night. Riley has also arrived. He said he would prefer to skip the concert. Saturday, June_ 4_th. Last night's performance proved to be a triumph. Miss Bowden played Bach's _Chaconne. Solway was brimming with excitement and shouted, “I knew she could do it—I knew she could do it!” Sunday, June_ 5th. A has been ill all week, and he has postponed his stay with the Housmans until today. They asked me to attend, but because Solway and Riley were present, I declined. Cunninghame has invited me to dinner next week so I can meet his cousin, Mrs. Caryl. I will have to conceal from Gertrude that I’m going to meet them, since Caryl was promoted over his head and she would see it as disloyal on my part. Solway and Riley joined me for lunch at the club. In the afternoon I went to listen to Miss Bowden play at Mrs Griffith’s house, where Solway was staying. We were unable to convince Riley to join us. I dined there with Solway. Riley joined further literary circles and dined with Professor Langdon, the Shakespeare critic. Letter from Guy Cunninghame to Mrs. Caryl – London, Monday, June 6. Dearest Elsie, please record in your engagement book that you will dine with me on both Thursday and Monday. I have requested that Godfrey Mellor meet with you on Thursday. George is bedridden with appendicitis, and I fear his condition is quite dire. The doctors will decide today whether to operate immediately or not. He is staying at a nursing home on Welbeck Street. His sister is attending to him. He was set to travel to Canada in August. I doubt he will be able to do so now. I am thrilled to see you. Yours, G. – From the diary of Godfrey Mellor, Monday, June 6. A has been diagnosed with appendicitis and was admitted to a nursing home. I have just heard that he will undergo an operation tomorrow morning. Tuesday, June_ 7_th. _ A’s operation was carried out successfully, yet he remains gravely ill. Cunninghame visited Welbeck Street this morning and ran into his sister. She is most anxious. He was, of course, not allowed to see A. I stayed up late last night, chatting with Riley. Thursday, June_ 9_th. Cunninghame visited Welbeck Street and consulted the doctor. He says there's every chance of his recovery. It seemed the peril lay in performing the operation immediately, even though the inflammation was still present. It wasn’t precisely appendicitis, yet Cunninghame’s explanation was far too technical for me to grasp. I had dinner with Cunninghame today in order to meet Mrs. Caryl. I had not yet met her husband. To me, he appeared somewhat stiff. Lady Jarvis was there also. She was deeply disturbed by A’s illness. Friday, June_ 10th. Yesterday, Gertrude and Edmund Anstruther arrived. I dined with them to-night. Edmund remarked that diplomats were treated in a scandalous manner. Hard‑working professionals were always overlooked. The most prestigious positions were awarded to men outside the profession. A conscientious man could not expect to succeed in that profession. If he is passed over again, he will no longer tolerate it and will resign from the Service entirely. He stated that the Foreign Office was very weak. They never supported a subordinate who took a strong line. They always climbed down. I wondered what issue Edmund had been taking a firm line on in Buenos Aires. Gertrude agreed. She noted that they had spent three years there without a leave of absence, and if they failed to secure a satisfactory promotion, she would counsel Edmund to retire and seek a position in the City. The city was full of firms eager to snap up Edmund. She mentioned the Housmans, noting that she knew they were among my associates and that she wanted to avoid speaking ill of them. Yet she had met several people in Buenos Aires who were close to Mrs Housman, and she described her as a rather perilous woman. I asked how she might be dangerous. Gertrude said, “Perhaps you don’t realize she’s a Roman Catholic.” I replied that I had known this for years, yet she never mentioned it. "Exactly what I mean," Gertrude replied; "they're far too subtle, and I'm afraid to speak of it openly." They lead you on." I asked Gertrude whether Mrs. Housman intended to convert me. She said most certainly. Her friends in Buenos Aires had told her that she had attracted many converts. It was the one thing she was concerned about, and even if she didn’t, Roman Catholics were obliged to do it. It would have seemed natural, if they believed that failing to be converted would condemn us all to hell. I said I was not sure Roman Catholics did believe that. | Alden met them as they were half-way to the church, and, utterly regardless of two or three interested children who happened to be passing, shook hands with Aunt Matilda, then bent to kiss the flushed and happy face under the big plumed hat. " What magnificence!" He declared. I feel I don’t deserve all this splendor, I’m afraid. How on earth did you pull this off? Rosemary glanced toward Aunt Matilda, then offered a faint, wistful laugh. "Oh," she answered, feigning lightness, "I just managed it, that’s all." At the church’s threshold, Madame received them, her arms laden with a generous embrace of white roses for the bride. She, too, wore a new gown for the occasion, her sweet, weathered face glowing with smiles. What a lovely bride," she whispered, kissing Rosemary gently. Ah, my darling! You mustn't, truly! Let no tears fall on this wedding day. The minister lingered at the altar, ready to begin. Madame and Aunt Matilda settled together in the front pew; a hush of solemnity fell for a moment, before the beautiful service began. Golden light poured through the open windows, filling the church with autumn’s rich colors and fragrant breezes that drifted into every corner. From outside, a robin chirped cheerfully, pausing on a nearby window sill to peep in. The light‑flutter of small, furred paws skittered through the raked leaves, while a splash of crimson from a drifting maple leaf drifted across the open doorway. In the sunlight, the taper lights on the altar glittered like distant stars that had suddenly descended to earth. "May you grow together in this life," the deep voice intoned, "and in the everlasting life." Amen!" Following the benediction, the minister offered a perfunctory congratulations. When he addressed her as “Mrs. Marsh,” Rosemary instinctively glanced toward Madame, then laughed and flushed as she realized what he meant. Madame embraced the girl, folding her gently into her arms as she swayed down from the altar. Dear daughter!" she said. " Truly, my daughter—now! Aunt Matilda and Rosemary hurried back to the little brown house, their footsteps echoing Alden’s whispered admonition: “Don’t keep me waiting long, dear—please.” Neither spoke until after Rosemary slipped into her pale, lustrous grey gown, standing before the mirror with hat and gloves in matching hue. "I'll go in and say goodbye to Grandmother," Rosemary said. Wait a minute. She might still be caught in dream. Aunt Matilda slipped into the old lady’s room on tiptoe, then slipped back out, her finger resting against her lips. "She was sound asleep," she remarked, “and her face looked as if she had begun to feel better.” I suppose she'll regain her composure again soon. The Starr family has always been robust, nearly impossible to defeat. Together, they descended the staircase in hushed silence. When the door opened, Rosemary beheld Alden, poised at the gate, awaiting her arrival. Beaming with joy that lifted her to the core of each fiber, Rosemary said goodbye to Aunt Matilda and then hurried to where her bridegroom stood, ready to escort her into a world of service and love. THE END | 0.4 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Baring, Maurice | Green, Olive | 42702 | 27661 | Baring, Maurice_[Passing By]_1500_21_0.8 | Green, Olive_[Master of the Vineyard]_1500_55_0.8 |
The vision of her poor little tired face, her "rather dirty white dress," her "grown-up" hair, her timidity and her loneliness, never left him for a moment. While I thought he was only preoccupied with the Markovitch and Semyonov problem, he was actually deeply concerned about Nina. So unnaturally secretive can young men be! At last he decided on a plan. He chose Monday—the day of the Bourse meeting—because he expected Grogoff to be present, giving him a chance to catch Nina alone, and because both he and his fellow propagandists would already be at the meeting, freeing him to leave the office earlier that afternoon. He had no idea how he would gain entry to the flat, yet he was convinced that fortune would inevitably favour him. He always thought that. Well, fortune did. He left the office and arrived in the Gagarinskaya about half-past five in the evening. He walked about a little, and then saw a bearded tall fellow drive up in an Isvostchick. He identified the man as Lenin, the soul of the anti‑government movement, a figure who would later rise to great prominence in Russian politics. This fellow argued very hotly with the Isvostchick about his fare, then vanished through the double doors. Bohun followed him. Outside Grogoff's flat Lenin waited and rang the bell. Bohun waited on the ground floor; when he heard the door open, he slipped up the stairs silently, following Lenin as the old servant—his back turned—helped him with his coat. As he had hoped, he found a stack of cloaks and a shuba hanging beside the door in a dark corner of the wall. He crept behind these. He heard Lenin tell the servant that he would not remove his coat, as he was about to leave again immediately. Then directly afterwards Grogoff came into the hall. That was the moment of crisis. When Grogoff finally pulled his coat from the rack, the drama was over—an unpleasant scene would follow: a ludicrous expulsion, a scuffle over the British nation’s thieving and deceitful habits, and the grim realization that Nina’s hope for rescue might be gone forever. Worst of all, the ignominy of it! No young man likes to be discovered hidden behind a coat-rack, however honest his original intentions! His heart thumped in stifling dread as he slipped between the coats—only to discover Grogoff already standing there, wrapped in his own overcoat. It was, thank God, too warm an evening for a Shuba. The men shook hands, and after Grogoff spoke somewhat deferentially about the meeting, Lenin—briefly and brusquely—put him immediately back in his place. They stepped out together, the door slamming shut behind them, and the apartment fell into a hush as still as an aquarium. He waited for a while, and then, hearing nothing, crept into the hall. Perhaps Nina was out. If the old servant saw him she would think him a burglar and would certainly scream. He pushed back the door in front of him, stepped forward, and almost stepped upon Nina! She gave a little cry, not seeing whom it was. She looked disheveled, her hair hanging loose down her back, with a rough apron draped over her dress. She appeared gaunt and exhausted, her dark circles under the eyes deepening as if she hadn’t slept in weeks. Then she saw who it was and, in spite of herself, smiled. " Genry!" she exclaimed. " Yes," he said in a whisper, closing the door very softly behind him. " Look here, don't scream or do anything foolish. I don't want that old woman to catch me. " He has no very clear memory of the conversation that followed. She stood with her back to the wall, staring at him, and every now and then bit a corner of her pinafore. He remembered that action of hers especially as being absurdly childish. The impression that struck him most was her terror—fear of everything and everyone, with only himself left out. She later explained that he was the only one who could have saved her then, because she could no longer fear anyone she had once laughed at. She was, naturally, terrified of Grogoff—she couldn’t utter his name without trembling—yet she feared the old servant, the flat, the room, the clock, and every whisper or creak that might echo through it. She to be so frightened! She of whom he would have said that she was equal to any one or anything! What she must have been through during those weeks to have brought her to this!... But she told him very little. He urged her immediately to leave with him right then. She simply shook her head at that. " No... No... No..." she kept repeating. " You don't understand. " " I do understand," he murmured, keeping one ear close to the door so the old woman wouldn't hear and walk in. We've got very little time," he said. " Grogoff will never let you go if he's here. I know why you don't come back—you think we'll all look down on you for having gone. But that's nonsense. We are all simply miserable without you. " She simply kept repeating “No… No…” and, as he urged her further, she begged him to go away. She explained that he had no idea what Grogoff would do if he came back and caught him, and that even though he was attending a meeting, Grogoff could return at any moment. Then, as if urging Grogoff’s ferocity into him, she whispered in faint, hoarse tones the hardships she had endured during those weeks. He had beaten her, hurled objects at her, kept her awake night after night, forcing her to sing to him—and beyond that, even more terrible acts that she would never even confide in anyone, not even Vera. Poor Nina, she had indeed been punished for her innocent impetuosities. Broken in body and soul, she had finally confronted reality only to be defeated by it. She suddenly turned away, tucked her head into her arm like a tiny child, and began to cry—at that very instant he realized he was in love with her. He approached her, wrapped his arm around her, kissed her, stroked her hair, and whispered gentle words of consolation into her ears. She collapsed suddenly, pressing her head into his breast and letting her tears soak his waistcoat; from that moment on, he seemed free to do whatever he pleased with her. He whispered to her to grab her hat, then her coat, and to hurry back. The scene that followed must have had its ludicrous side. The old woman neither screamed nor made any noise; instead, she asked him what he was doing there, and he replied that he was going out for a walk with the house’s mistress. She said that he should do nothing of the kind. He told her to stand away from the door. She refused to move. He lunged at her, seized her waist, and a frantic, impossible struggle erupted across the room’s center. He urged Nina to run, relishing the sight of her darting through the door like a frightened hare. The old woman bit, scratched, and kicked, her shrieks echoing like a kettle on the verge of boiling. Suddenly, convinced that Nina had already managed to get well away, he shoved the old woman with an unceremonious push that sent her slamming against Grogoff’s chief cabinet, and he could hear the entire crash to the floor as he closed the door behind him. Out in the street he found Nina, and soon afterwards an Isvostchick. She crouched close to him, staring at his face in silence and shivering, and as he felt her hot hand tremble against his, he swore he would never leave her again. I don't believe that he ever will. So he took her home, and his Knight Errantry was justified at last. | Well, I, 'The-thing-who-should-not-have-been-born,' live on until that day comes, and when it comes I think that you and I, Macumazahn, shall not be far apart, and that is why I have opened out my heart to you, I who have knowledge of the future. There, I no longer speak of those things that lie ahead, for they may have already been told too often. Yet do not forget my words. If you’d rather forget them, I will remind you, Macumazahn, when your people have avenged the Ndwandes and those whom the Zulus are content to treat as mere dirt. Now, the peculiar man, who had risen in his enthusiasm, shook the long white hair he had braided into thin cords like a wizard’s, letting it drape over him like a veil and hide his broad face and deep eyes. He spoke again, the veil of white hair shielding his voice, and said, “Macumazahn, you’re wondering what Saduko has to do with all these great events that are to come.” I said Saduko must play a role—small, but part of a larger design—so I rescued him from Bangu, raised him as a warrior, yet was honest with him that he would do better leaving spears aside and seeking wisdom instead. He will kill Bangu, who has recently quarrelled with Panda; then Mameena, a woman who enters the tale, will ignite a war among Panda’s sons, and from that conflict will arise the ruin of the Zulus—because the victor will become a tyrant to them and unleash the wrath of a more powerful race upon them. And so 'The-thing-that-should-not-have-been-born' and the Ndwandes, Quabies, and Twetwas—whom the conquering Zulus have named “Amatefula”—shall be avenged. Yes, yes, my Spirit tells me all these things, and they are true. " " And what of Saduko, my friend and your fosterling?" " Saduko, your friend and my fosterling, will walk his appointed path, Macumazahn, as I shall and you will. What more could he desire, seeing it is that which he has chosen? He will take his road and he will play the part which the Great-Great has prepared for him. Seek not to know more. Why should you, since Time will tell you the story? And now go to rest, Macumazahn, as I must who am old and feeble. And when it pleases you to visit me again, we will talk further. Meanwhile, remember always that I am merely an old Kafir trickster who feigns knowledge that belongs to no one. Remember it, Macumazahn, when you come upon a split‑horned buffalo by the pool of a dried‑up river, and later when a woman named Mameena offers you something that may tempt you to accept. Good night to you, Watcher‑by‑Night with the white heart and strange destiny; sleep well, and try not to think too harshly of the old Kafir cheat who has just become known as “Opener‑of‑Roads.” My servant waits to lead you to your hut; if you wish to be back at Umbezi’s kraal by tomorrow’s nightfall, it will serve you to start before sunrise, for Saduko, though he may seem foolish, is a very sound walker and you don’t want to be left behind, Macumazahn. I stood to depart, but as I walked an impulse seized me, luring me back, and I was forced to sit down again. Macumazahn," he said, "I would add a word. When you were quite a lad you came into this country with Retief, did you not?" " “Yes,” I answered slowly, for the Retief massacre is a subject I rarely speak about, even though I have recorded it in writing. Even my allies, Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good, have only a faint memory of the part I played in that tragedy. But what do you know of that business, Zikali?" " I think that’s all there is to know, Macumazahn—since I was at the very heart of it and Dingaan, on my advice, killed those Boers just as he did with Chaka and Umhlangana. You cold-blooded old murderer—" I began, but he interrupted me at once. " Why do you hurl wicked names at me, Macumazahn, just as I cast the stone of your fate upon you? Why am I called a murderer for having caused the deaths of some white men who happened to be your friends—men who came here to cheat us black people of our homeland? Was it for this reason that you brought about their deaths, Zikali?" I asked, staring him in the face, for I felt that he was lying to me. " “Not entirely, Macumazahn,” he answered, letting his strange eyes—capable of staring at the sun without blinking—fall before my gaze. Have I not told you that I hate the House of Senzangakona? With Retief and his companions slain, did the spilling of their blood not signal the final end of war between the Zulus and the White Men? Did it not signify the death of Dingaan and thousands of his people, marking only the beginning of further loss? Now do you understand?" " I understand that you are a very wicked man," I answered with indignation. " "At least you shouldn’t say that, Macumazahn," he replied, his voice newly infused with the weight of truth. Why not?" " Because I saved your life on that day. You escaped alone of the White Men, did you not? And you never could understand why, could you?" " No, I could not, Zikali. I put it down to what you would call 'the spirits.' " " Well, I will tell you. Those spirits of yours wore my kaross," and he laughed. " I watched you alongside the Boers and also realized that you belonged to another people—the English. You might have heard the rumor that I was working at the Great Place then, but I kept away and we never actually crossed paths, or… I also pitied your youth, for though you may not believe it, a sliver of heart still remained with me in those days. I also knew that we would reunite in the years ahead, as we have already done today, and that we would continue to do so until the very end. So I advised Dingaan that the person who died must be spared, or he would summon the “people of George” to seek vengeance, and a spirit would possess him and pour out a curse. He believed me, though I didn’t realize that so many curses had already converged around his head that any additional ones would matter little. Because you were spared, Macumazahn, and then aided in laying a curse on Dingaan without becoming a ghost, Panda—Dingaan’s brother and your adversary—now holds you in such high esteem. You remember the woman who helped you? Well, I made her do so. How did it all turn out for you afterward, Macumazahn—together with the Boer maiden by the Buffalo River, to whom you once made love? "Never mind how it went," I said, standing up at once, the old wizard’s words having dredged up dark, bitter memories in my mind. That time is dead, Zikali." " Is it, Macumazahn? From the look upon your face, I could have said it was still very much alive, for the deeds of our youth have a way of lingering. Nonetheless, I may be mistaken, and everything lies as lifeless as Dingaan, Retief, and the other companions. Even if you don’t believe it, I rescued you that blood‑stained day for my own reasons—not because a single white life mattered among the many I counted. Go now to rest, Macumazahn, for your heart has been awakened by this evening's memories; I promise you will sleep well tonight," he said, flicking his long white hair from his eyes, looking at me keenly, shaking his broad head, and bursting into another hearty laugh. So I went. But, ah! as I went I wept. | 0.1 | Historical fiction | Walpole, Hugh | Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider) | 12349 | 1711 | Walpole, Hugh_[The Secret City]_1500_85_0.4 | Haggard, H. Rider (Henry Rider)_[Chronicles (1 of 6): The Historie of England (8 of 8) The Eight Booke of the Historie of England]_1500_9_0.5 |
It's enough to give you the jimjams, it is." Her smooth, plump face carried not wisdom itself, but a fervent quest for it. Once more, a flicker in her eyes resembled a calm, self‑assured skepticism, displacing any remaining old uncertainties and beliefs. Her life was no longer a chaotic jumble of advances and retreats; her self‑criticism was driven by a vague longing to “get somewhere,” her thoughts and emotions snapped, her problems grew clearer, the people around her revealed unmistakable virtues and faults, and a rebellious spirit waited only for a proper climax. Her year of quarrels and conversations with Rosenberg had sharpened her speech and broadened her mind. The books he had given her had crystallized into specific temptations—tales of men and women who lived bravely or struggled, pursued truth, deepened their mutual understanding, embraced a sexual freedom beyond merely postponing lust for marriage, and rejected the shams and kowtowing of others. Often she would draw her family's disapproval by staying home to read a novel past midnight, her eyes never leaving the pages. Her sister, brother, and parents felt she was getting “queer in the dome,” wasting her time when she might have been courting a serious fiancé or simply enjoying herself; although she still went out with men three or four nights a week, the family grew increasingly anxious that she was not a “regular” girl and that foolish, unfeminine ideas had taken hold. They believed that by age twenty‑two a woman should either already be married or be on the path to wed, and they could not understand her indifference to that expectation. They placed the lion’s share of the blame on Rosenberg, accusing him of being the dull, clueless presence she’d always feared to invite into her life—an influence that turned her against her family and filled her head with the useless ideas from the foolish books he’d lent her. Even her mother begged her to stop seeing him, exclaiming, “You’re no longer my sweet girl.” You oughta stop traipsin' around with that Jew boy, you oughta. He won't never marry you, and it's I that wouldn't let you, anyways. He's got no money and he's not right in his head, he's not! " Harry threatened to “beat up” Rosenberg if he ever saw him, her father ranted in fury, yet she treated their objections as a joke, further enraging them but leaving them powerless except to lock her in her room at night—an option hardly suited to a 22‑year‑old who made her own living and could leave home whenever she pleased. On her own part, Blanche had treated their railings with a perverse resentment. " I'll go on seeing him just to spite them—who're they to boss me around," she had said to herself. In truth, she had grown to regard Rosenberg’s intellect and eloquence with less reverence, beginning to see shortcomings in his character. He never does anything but talk—he's a wonder there," she had said to herself once. " He takes it all out in wind. “I’m sure he’ll spend the rest of his life working in that library, or in some place just like it.” N' again, he always says he's going to write big things, but I never see him doing it. I'd like to meet a fellow that's doing something—making a name for himself. Gee, 'f I could ever run across one of those nov'lists, for instance. That man, Ronald Urban, who wrote Through The Fields—wouldn't it be all to the mustard to talk to him! He could tell me all kinds of things I've never dreamt of. " She kept seeing Rosenberg because he seemed the most promising option, she felt sorry for his unrequited longing, and she wanted to prove to her family that she wouldn’t be intimidated. Harry was still barred from the ring, and the family had lapsed back to its old tilts with poverty. Blanche and Philip each had to set aside part of their earnings for the apartment’s upkeep, and Mabel, who had taken a job as a dress model for a wholesale cloak‑and‑suit firm, did the same. She called it “cluck ’n soot,” feigning a strong contempt for her surroundings and her Jewish superiors, yet she wasn’t averse to dining and dancing with the more affluent clientele who frequented her establishment. Harry had slipped into a reckless idleness, spending his days loafing, occasionally dabbling in bootlegging or slipping into flings, while his father drifted through pool halls, lamenting his son's supposed persecution or lost himself in poker and pinochle. As Blanche lolled in the Beauty Parlor, tinkering with her nails, the image of Joe Campbell was in her head. He had ignored her for six months, then resurfaced the day before, and she had arranged to meet him that night. It's no use—I can't get you out of my head," he had told her over the telephone. " I stopped seeing you because I thought you were playing me for a sucker, but go right ahead, girlie—I'll bite again. You're deuces wild and the sky for a limit with me!" " "You didn't have to hoarse off telling me that for the last few months," she replied, amused and mildly flattered. Sure not, I was trying to forget you," he had responded. " It can't be done, little girl. Come on now, let daddy act like a millionaire to-night—he's good that way. " When she told her family about his call, everyone urged her to pursue him and push for a marriage proposal. He must be nuts about you 'r else he wouldn't always come back for more," Mabel had said. " I'll bet you're always freezin' him out, that's the trouble. You'll be a fool 'f you don't try to land him this time. He's loaded with jack, and he's got a rep, and he's not so bad-lookin' at that. What more d'you want, I'd like to know—you're no Ziegfeld Follies girl yourself. " While polishing her nails, Blanche wondered whether marrying Campbell after all might be the wiser choice. Most of his former allure had worn off for her, leaving her to see him as a mediocre actor who laughed to mask his real desires, indulged in drinking and spend‑thrift to convince others he was more important than he actually was, and ignored the finer things in life—books, art, and the like. Still, if she married him he would give her leisure and independence, letting her discover what lay within her and whether she was gifted for something more dignified than merely styling her hair or operating a cash register. Then she could spend most of her day simply reading and reflecting, or perhaps enroll in a school to learn something new and meet a wider array of people. How could she possibly build a future for herself if she must toil every day, split her scarce earnings with her family, and endure their relentless nagging? Without a doubt she didn't love Campbell, and the idea of ongoing physical intimacy with him grew less appealing—as she began to see past his bluster and boastful façade, his touch and kisses lost some of their earlier allure—but she still found him physically satisfying, and expecting more from any man would have been wishful. He wouldn't talk about the new things that she was interested in, or sympathize with her desires for knowledge and expression, but when, oh, when, would she ever find a man who had these responses? | "We've got genius at the helm, romance on the bridge, and a cargo of Venusian pineapples in the hold. That reminds me—how's your girlfriend? May comets blaze your trail, sailor! He shot back. This is a serious matter. I wanted to warn you—you better have a smooth run. A prize hangs from it. Could you repeat that? The central office had just leaked the information. The Government has decided to award its freight express service to the company whose next routine Venus‑to‑Earth run takes the least time. "It's an undercover trial, and no one is meant to have any clue." When the Saturn departed Sun City, its time was logged and would be compared against that of other competing liners—strangely, I felt a few cold goosebumps rise on my forehead. When I brushed them, the surface was still wet. A real hit for the Corporation. The Saturn is the most veteran space freighter still in active service on interplanetary routes. She was built there long before the turn of the century. She is a ten‑day freighter, even though she lacks many modern improvements. One of our new luggers could make the same run in six or seven days, and it was rumored that the Slipstream—the pride of the Cosmos Company fleet—could pull it off in five. I shouted, “Flares of Fomalhaut, Joe, that’s not fair!” The Saturn is the slowest ship in the Corporation’s fleet. "Why aren't we allowed to conduct a test flight with the Spica or the Antigone?" “It’s simply a matter of politics, friend,” he replied, weary. "Politics—spelled g‑r‑a‑f‑t—means someone’s got a finger in the pie and is looking to secure the Cosmos Company’s share." Tonight, the Slipstream departs from Sun City. Your task is simply to arrive in Long Island about ten hours before she does. "Is that all there is?" I uttered a low, aching regret at the thought of falling behind. Are we really not supposed to detour and haul a half‑ton of diamond dust on the way? Shooting meteors, Joe—he cut into my etheric sobs, saying hastily, “Somebody’s breaking into our band, guy.” I have to head off now. Best of luck!" The sign‑off slipped from the needle, and I stared at a dead connection. And there we stood, far out on the rim. We are racing the fastest freighter in space for the biggest prize ever awarded—a reward that has only been up for grabs since the Government “lotteried off” the Fort Knox hoardings. I furrowed two new wrinkles into my brow before heading below to find Cap Hanson. He regarded my complaint with a calm, yet ominous, composure. Once I was finished, he replied with a wry grin, “Tough, ain't it?” I locked my gaze on him. Rewritten sentence:
"Skipper, we must find a way to get home first." The government contract brings in at least three million credits annually. If we lose the contract, the Corporation will punish us with severe sanctions. He grinned ghoulishly, extending two hairy paws for me to inspect. Can you see those hands, Sparks? I told him, “I’m a radio operator, not a manicurist.” "Those hands," he insisted, "are as clean as a pipeline on Pluto." Examine the log. Mister Lancelot Biggs is listed as the commander for this voyage. This frees me from all of my obligations and other duties. I said, “But, Skipper, you have the experience!” In an emergency like this, he shook his head. Sparks, we’re not going to beat the Slipstream to Earth. A snowman on Mercury is virtually impossible. I am perfectly content to let Mr. Biggs bear the worries, and if the Corporation is indeed thick‑headed enough to blame someone for our failure, I am happy to let him shoulder that honor as well. He grinned once more. After this, he added, “Biggs shouldn’t be so full of himself.” And maybe Diane won't think he's quite the hotshot he pretends to be. That was all the skipper would say. After stretching the conversation for a further five minutes, I went in search of Lancelot Biggs—only to find he was nowhere on the bridge. He was not in the secondary control cabin, the mess hall, or the holds. He wasn’t in the engine room either. I finally found him sprawled full‑length on a divan in the ship’s library, a book in one hand while the other waved to keep time with the poem he was reciting aloud. As I entered, he looked up and greeted me, “Hello there, Sparks!” You've arrived just in time to hear something delightful. Hyor Kandru, the Venusian poet laureate, presents this space epic. It’s called “Alas, Infinity!” "Listen," he read, "… and then comes the quietude of the endless void." The heart seeks, breathless, the magnificent monotones of space—monotony, your eye! There are moments when I’d gladly trade all my bug‑hunting labor for a quiet, cushioned cell somewhere beyond Pluto. "I said, 'Listen, Mr. Biggs—' and he replied in a dreamlike tone, 'You know, Sparks, I often wonder if the poetic mind might be sharper than a strictly scientific one.' Since I met Diane, who introduced me to the symphonic beauty of poetry, I've imagined so many new possibilities. The ceaseless wonder of Saturn’s rings, for instance. “The problem of space vacuoles,” I began, “Speaking of vacuoles, you and I, along with about fourteen other mariners aboard the good ship Saturn, will soon find ourselves inside one—if by vacuole you mean a hole.” Because— and then I told him. Misery, as the rumor goes, is a gregarious soul, and it did my heart good to watch him spring upright from his lying position. But—but, Sparks!" He quavered, “That must be terribly unfair!” "So," I told him, "I’m betting on the gee‑gees." Only one horse can win, but everyone finds a backer. “Essentially, what are we going to do about it?” Do?" he piped. " What’s our plan? We'll tackle plenty of tasks. Come on! " We made our way to the engine room. Chief Engineer Garrity heard Biggs’ plea with granite aplomb, then shook his head slowly from side to side. “You’re not suggesting, Mr. Biggs,” he said, “that I try to double the Saturn’s speed?” You must! " Garrity smiled without mirth, nodding his weathered head toward the bustling, old‑fashioned hypatomics in the firing room. Those engines, he said, are designed to haul us from Earth to Venus—and back again—in ten days. By pushing them harder, we can complete the trip in nine days. Straining them could bring the journey down to eight days. But if we push them beyond that limit— We’ll reach Long Island Rocketport adrift, a ragged cluster of bolts, plates, and rivets. “You probably wouldn’t appreciate that, Mr. Biggs,” he added, speculating. We headed for the bridge and sat down to untangle the problem with our junior officer, Dick Todd. Dick was bursting with ideas, yet every one of them flopped. Our discussion concluded without anyone reaching a decision. And finally I sighed, “Mr. Biggs, I’m afraid this goes beyond my expertise.” I ought to return to my turret in case any messages come in. He paced the floor, occasionally moaning and scrubbing his scalp with frantic fingers. All of this unfolded on our first day out of Sun City. The beginning was a disaster, and the situation quickly deteriorated. At exactly 24:00 Solar Constant Time, a ham operator on Venus flashed me that the Slipstream had just slipped her gravs. That marked the start of the race. Huh! What race? Eight hours later, our perilens tracked the Slipstream. She cut a silver ribbon across the cosmos. You can bet your bottom dollar that her skipper recognized just how important this trip was. I had been drifting off when the Slipstream sliced past us, but my relief officer rattled me awake to read the message from her commander. The message read, “Hello, goats!” Want a tow?" It could have been a good idea at that point. Garrity and his crew were working themselves to the bone, but I must credit the timeless Saturn—the old freighter glided along with undeniable, handsome style. We logged a little over three million miles in the next twenty‑four hours—about half a million miles farther than the planned distance for our crate. We completed the job, and music played along with it, too. The plates clinked and strained, the jets hissed like a nest of outraged rattlesnakes, and once or twice, as our Moran deflectors shunted off meteoric fragments, I wondered if we’d have to clear space for interstellar cold storage. So what? | 0.4 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Bodenheim, Maxwell | Bond, Nelson | 67372 | 73943 | Bodenheim, Maxwell_[9th Avenue]_1500_15_0.5 | Bond, Nelson_[Normandy: The Scenery & Romance of Its Ancient Towns, Complete]_1500_2_0.9 |
For it had come at last, after all these weeks of ferment, after all this strange time of perturbation. Stealthily it had trailed him ever since that fortuitous introduction almost a year earlier, shortly after he had settled into London following six years in Rome and Paris. First the merest friendliness, because she was so nice about his work; then respectful admiration, because she was so beautiful; then pity, because she was so unhappy in her marriage. If she had been happy, he would have fled. The knowledge that she had been unhappy long before he knew her had kept his conscience still. And at last one afternoon she said: "Ah! if you come out there too!" Marvelously subtle was the way that one tiny phrase slipped into him, as if it possessed a life of its own—like an unfamiliar bird that had flown into the garden of his heart, settling there with a new song, a flutter of wings, and a clearer, wistful call. That and one moment, a few days later in her London drawing-room, when he had told her that he WAS coming, and she did not, could not, he felt, look at him. Queer, that nothing momentous said, done—or even left undone—had altered all the future! And so she had gone with her uncle and aunt, under whose wing one might be sure she would meet with no wayward or exotic happenings. And he had received from her this little letter: "HOTEL COEUR D'OR, "MONTE CARLO. " MY DEAR MARK, "We've arrived. It is so good to be in the sun. The flowers are wonderful. I am keeping Gorbio and Roquebrune till you come. " Your friend, "OLIVE CRAMIER. " That letter was the single clear memory he had of the time between her going and his following. He received it one afternoon while perched on an old, low garden wall, the spring sun pouring through budding apple trees, and felt as though all the world’s longing lay at his feet, awaiting his outstretched hand. Then confused unrest, all things vague; till at the end of his journey he stepped out of the train at Beaulieu with a furiously beating heart. But why? Surely he had not expected her to come out from Monte Carlo to meet him! For a whole week he had tried to hide his longing for her, slipping through two concerts and two solitary walks together in a careful attempt to appear indifferent. Yet every word he spoke seemed hollow, and her replies were only ghostly echoes of what he truly wanted. Then, just moments ago, her handkerchief slipped from her glove onto the dusty road, and he caught it and pressed it to his lips. Nothing could take away the look she had given him then. Nothing could ever again separate her from him utterly. She had confessed in it to the same sweet, fearful trouble that he himself was feeling. She had not spoken, but he had seen her lips part, her breast rise and fall. And HE had not spoken. What was the use of words? He felt in the pocket of his coat. There, against his fingers, was that wisp of lawn and lace, soft, yet somehow alive; and stealthily he took it out. The whole of her, with her fragrance, seemed pressed to his face in the touch of that lawn border, roughened by little white stars. More secretly than ever he put it back; and for the first time looked round. These people! They belonged to a world that he had left. They gave him the same feeling that her uncle and aunt had given him just now, when they said good-night, following her into their hotel. That good Colonel, that good Mrs. Ercott! At that moment he seemed to have turned his back on the very embodiment of the world he had been raised in—the English worldview, with its symbolic ideals of health, reason, and the straight path. The Colonel's profile, ruddy through its tan, with grey moustache guiltless of any wax, his cheery, high-pitched: "Good-night, young Lennan!" His wife's curly smile, her flat, cosy, confidential voice—how strange and remote they had suddenly become! And all these people here, chattering, drinking—how queer and far away! Or was it just that he was queer and remote to them? And getting up from his table, he passed the fiddlers with the dark-white skins, out into the Place. II. He walked up the side streets toward the back of her hotel and stood by the railings of a garden that existed only in advertisements—its few arid palms, white pathways stretched between them, and a fringe of dusty lilacs and mimosas. And there came to him the oddest feeling—that he had been there before, peering through blossoms at those staring paths and shuttered windows. A scent of wood-smoke was abroad, and some dry plant rustled ever so faintly in what little wind was stirring. What was there of memory in this night, this garden? Some dark sweet thing, invisible, to feel whose presence was at once ecstasy, and the irritation of a thirst that will not be quenched. And he walked on. Houses, houses! At last he was away from them, alone on the high road, beyond the limits of Monaco. And walking thus through the night he had thoughts that he imagined no one had ever had before him. The knowledge that she loved him had made everything seem very sacred and responsible. Whatever he did, he must not harm her. Women were so helpless! For in spite of six years of art in Rome and Paris, he still had a fastidious reverence for women. Had she loved her husband, she would have felt protected from him; yet the idea of being bound to a partnership she entered unwillingly seemed utterly dreadful, even before she had found love in herself. How could any husband ask that? Have so little pride—so little pity? The unpardonable thing! What was there to respect in such a marriage? Only, he must not do her harm! But now that her eyes had said, I love you!—What then? It was simply miraculous to know THAT, under the stars of this warm Southern night, burning its incense of trees and flowers! Climbing up above the road, he lay down. If only she were there beside him! The fragrance of the earth not yet chilled, crept to his face; and for just a moment it seemed to him that she did come. If he could keep her there forever in that embrace that was a non‑embrace— in that ghostly rapture upon this wild, fragrant bed that no lovers before had ever pressed, save the creeping things and the flowers; save sunlight and moonlight with their shadows; and the wind kissing the earth. Then she was gone; his hands touched nothing but the crumbled pine dust, and the flowers of the wild thyme fallen into sleep. He stood on the edge of the little cliff, above the road between the dark mountains and the sea black with depth. Too late for any passer-by; as far from what men thought and said and did as the very night itself with its whispering warmth. And he conjured up her face, making certain of it—the eyes, clear and brown, and wide apart; the close, sweet mouth; the dark hair; the whole flying loveliness. Then he leaped down into the road, and ran—one could not walk, feeling this miracle, that no one had ever felt before, the miracle of love. III In their most reputable hotel 'Le Coeur d'Or,' long since remodelled and renamed, Mrs. Ercott lay in her brass-bound bed looking by starlight at the Colonel in his brass-bound bed. Her ears were carefully freed from the pressure of her pillow, for she thought she heard a mosquito. Companion for thirty years to one whose life had been feverishly punctuated by the attentions of those little beasts, she had no love for them. It was the one subject on which perhaps her imagination was stronger than her common sense. For in fact there was not, and could not be, a mosquito, since the first thing the Colonel did, on arriving at any place farther South than Parallel 46 of latitude, was to open the windows very wide, and nail with many tiny tacks a piece of mosquito netting across that refreshing space, while she held him firmly by the coat-tails. | Through the square hall she ran into the drawing-room, which opened out on to the lawn; and there, in the French window, stood spying back at the spick-and-span room, where everything was, of course, placed just wrong. The colours—white, ebony, and satinwood—looked even nicer than she had hoped. In her own garden, the pear trees were thickening yet still unblossomed; a few daffodils had already bloomed along the walls, and a magnolia displayed a single opened bud. Throughout, she cradled the puppies against her, relishing their youthful, warm, fluffy scent and letting them nuzzle her. She burst out of the drawing‑room and raced up the stairs. She dashed into her bedroom, the dressing‑room, the spare room, and the bathroom—entering each one in quick succession. Oh, how delightful it felt to be in her own place—until, suddenly, she felt herself lifted from behind, hung in an ungainly posture, her eyes spinning as she turned her face so he could reach her lips. Is there any sweeter moment than waking to the early chirping of birds and feeling that winter has passed? On that very first morning in her new home, Gyp woke to the chirping of a sparrow—or whatever bird makes the earliest tweets—and soon found it eclipsed by a richer, more resonant note in the avian chorus. It seemed as if all of London’s feathered creatures had gathered in her garden, and an old verse came to mind: “All dear children of Nature, sweetly lie at the bride and bridegroom’s feet, blessing their sense.” Exclude all airborne creatures—whether sweet‑singing or graceful—from this place. She turned, her eyes sweeping over her husband. He lay with the tip of his head tucked into the pillow, leaving only his thick, rumpled hair visible to her. She felt a shiver run through her, as if a mysterious man had just been lying there. Did he truly belong to her, and did she truly belong to him—for good? And was this their house—together? Everything felt oddly altered – heavy, disquieting – within that unfamiliar bed and the peculiar room, a place destined to last. To avoid rousing him, she slipped out quietly and positioned herself between the curtains and the window. Light lingered in a haze of confusion; far below the trees, the rose of dawn clung stubbornly to the fading dusk. One could almost think one had slipped into the countryside, save for the town’s faint, murmuring sounds stirring awake and the thin veil of morning mist hovering over London’s streets. She thought, “I am the mistress of this house and must command everything—tend to all the details.” And my pups! Oh, what do they eat?" That marked the start of many hours of anxiety, for she was exceptionally conscientious. She strived for flawless perfection herself, yet refused to impose that same exacting demand on anyone else—especially her servants. Why should she harry them? Fiorsen was entirely oblivious to the idea of regularity. She realized he couldn't even begin to grasp the challenges she faced in keeping the house orderly. She was too proud to ask for his help, or perhaps too wise, since he was clearly ill‑qualified to give it. His guiding principle was to live like the birds of the air. Gyp would have liked nothing better, but to achieve that she would need a house equipped with three servants, several meals, two puppy‑dogs, and plenty of experience in handling all of them. She kept her troubles to herself and endured them even worse. With Betty—who, far more conservative than before, accepted Fiorsen only as reluctantly as she had once accepted Winton—she had to tread very carefully. Her chief problem lay with her father. Although she yearned to see him, she genuinely dreaded the encounter. He arrived, just as he always had when she was a small child, at the hour he expected the man she now belonged to would have gone out. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw him beneath the trellis. She unlocked the door herself and lingered beside him, keeping his keen eyes from catching sight of her face. She promptly began talking about the puppies, whom she had named Don and Doff. They were perfect darlings, and nothing escaped their pranks—her slippers lay in ruin, and the pups had already slipped into her china cabinet and settled in for a nap. He must come and see everything. She hooked her arm into his and, while they chatted, she guided him up the stairs, down into the garden, and toward the studio—an art room at the garden’s end that opened onto a back lane. This room had long been the main attraction. Fiorsen could practice there in quiet solitude. Winton accompanied her in hushed tones, slipping in a few sharp, back‑handed comments here and there. At the far end of the garden, looking over the wall into the narrow passage bounded by it and the back of another garden, he suddenly squeezed her arm and said, “Well, Gyp, what sort of a time?” At last, the question emerged. Oh, rather lovely—in some ways." She refused to meet his eyes, and he, in turn, avoided looking at hers. See, Dad! The cats have left quite a trail there! Winton bit his lip and stepped back from the wall. Thoughts of that fellow filled him with bitterness. She intended to say nothing, to maintain a lighthearted smile—yet he was not fooled in the slightest. Look at my crocuses! It's really spring today! " It was. Even a bee or two had landed. The miniature leaves looked translucent, too delicate to block the sunlight from slipping through. The purple crocuses, their veins faint and delicate, seemed to cradle the light in little cups, their centers glowing with tiny orange flames. A soft wind stirred the boughs, and a few dry leaves still rustled here and there. On the grass, beneath the blue sky, and amid the almond blossoms, the first brilliance of spring unfolded. Gyp interlaced her fingers behind her head. Lovely—to feel the spring! " And Winton thought: 'She's changed!' She had softened and quickened, her hue deepening, her bearing gaining gravitas, her movements swaying with grace, and her smile radiating sweeter warmth. But—was she happy? A voice declared, “Ah, what a pleasure!” The fellow slipped forward, moving like the great cat he was. It seemed to Winton that Gyp had flinched. Gustav, Dad feels we should have dark curtains in the music room. Fiorsen made a bow. " Indeed, yes—just like a London club. Winton watched, certain that a plea was reflected in her face. He forced a smile and said, “You seem very snug here.” Glad to see you again. Gyp looks splendid. " Another such bow he detested with every fiber of his being. Mountebank! He would never, ever manage to stand that fellow! He must not show it, and he would not. As soon as he was able, he set off alone, retracing the familiar path through an area he knew only as far as the Lord's Cricket Ground, feeling doubt and desolation, his irritation heightened, yet resolved to stay nearby whenever the child might need him. He had been gone for fewer than ten minutes when Aunt Rosamund appeared, crutch in hand and a gentlemanly limp, as she too was succumbing to her family’s gout. It is natural for some people to crave exclusive possession of their friends, and the woman did not realize how fond she was of her niece until the girl slipped into this marriage. She longed to have her return, to resume their old routine and make the most of it just as before. Her polished drawl hardly masked the feeling. Gyp could sense Fiorsen subtly copying that drawl, and her ears began to burn. The puppies offered a diversion; their bright noses, fearless antics, playful bites, and eager leashes kept danger at bay for several minutes. Then the mimicry began again. After Aunt Rosamund had disappeared abruptly, Gyp stood by the drawing‑room window, her mask off. Fiorsen approached, wrapped an arm around her from behind, and, with a fierce sigh, asked, “Do these remarkable people visit often?” Gyp stepped back from him, moving toward the wall. If you love me, why do you try to hurt those who love me too? Because I am jealous. I even feel jealous of those puppies. Will you try to hurt them? If I see them too close to you, perhaps I will. Do you think I can still be happy if you hurt those who love me? He settled into a chair and gently pulled her onto his knee. She did not resist, but made not the faintest return to his caresses. | 0.8 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Galsworthy, John | Galsworthy, John | 2192 | 2453 | Galsworthy, John_[An Introduction to Entomology: Vol. 1 or Elements of the Natural History of the Insects]_1500_20_0.1 | Galsworthy, John_[Nyårsafton]_1500_16_0.8 |
Had they not gone swimming together before luncheon, and had not Dunham's athletic feats and man-to-man treatment of the island boy completely subjugated him? The tin pails he'd carried now lay in the locker, brimming with berries. As the sun lowered, the breezy coolness that had soothed the party slipped away little by little, and at last the boat glided, sluggishly, toward its mooring—like a weary bird finding its nest. "We are very lucky to have reached here instead of walking the whole island," Edna exclaimed as she leapt onto the dock. John, how much would you have enjoyed walking two miles while shouldering all those berries? Dunham shook his head as he bundled their gear out of the boat. I should have insisted on a seat for supper right away. It would have paralleled the case of the “Niger tiger” – they returned carrying the berries inside. Edna laughed and added, “And the smile on the face of—who?” Not a single one of us would have dared to smile. Even now, Sylvia remains the only member of the party who looks presentable. John fixed his gaze upon the younger girl, curiosity crinkling at the corners of his eyes. Indeed, Miss Sylvia, your self‑control today has been truly astonishing. Don't you like blueberries? " " "More than that," the girl replied, with marked emphasis. I love them. " " But not to eat," remarked Edna. " Naturally, Sylvia’s genteel upbringing keeps her from enjoying any food. I’m not sure what fate she has in mind for those treasures, but I suspect she intends to set them into a pendant‑adorned necklace. Sylvia flushed, her eyes glittering as she gripped a full pail, keeping it out of reach from her companions’ curious, laughing gazes. Each berry had been chosen for its size and depth of color; when the others begged for a plum from her prized stash, she guarded them fiercely, refusing to let her pail join the others on the return trip, clutching it in her lap and rising above all jeers and the menacing threats of her hungry companions. After leaving the boat, the trio bade Benny good‑night and set off up the hill. "Now then, John, say goodbye to your hotel," said Edna. Going to take me home to supper? Good work," he returned. " Yes, and we won’t let you return to that sunrise‑filled room either. That sounds great"—began Dunham eagerly. " “Still, I can’t trouble you,” he added. Miss Sylvia has shown me how to banish the light. What would Miss Martha reply if I asked her to lend me a black stocking? Edna smiled and replied, “Better not risk it.” Sylvia will be staying with me for a week. By including you, we will create a highly selective house party. "Just an hour," Sylvia told them, "is all I'll be staying." So did I," added Dunham. " Edna nodded and said, “All right, we’ll sail to Tide Mill tomorrow and pick up a few belongings for you.” “I trust you haven’t even considered that I would refuse,” said John. It's too lovely for anything!" Sylvia exclaimed, taking one hand from her precious pail to squeeze her friend's arm. She had longed to spend a few days here to conduct her experiment. From the Fir Ledges, a promontory was visible as they neared the cottage. "Listen up," Edna cheerfully said; "Miss Lacey has most likely spotted us." In just a moment she’ll step onto the piazza and say, “The supper is unfit to be eaten.” "I suppose, Edna," she said, "and so on." The words were barely out of the girl’s mouth when Miss Martha sprang into view. "Here at last you are, children," she said. The supper isn't fit to be eaten. I suppose, Edna, given your experience with how long it always takes to get home, the wind‑blown, disheveled trio burst into laughter. Here’s my peace offering, Miss Martha, John said, lifting the pails. Do you have the courage to act in any way other than falling onto our necks? If you had noticed the beads on my brow as I bent over those bleak little bushes. Yes, if anybody had seen them!" exclaimed Edna scornfully. " Go back to the same room you used last night, wash that brow, and be back here in five minutes if you want Miss Lacey to smile at you again. Miss Martha took great pride in the dining room of Anemone Cottage. At home, she would often remark that the best part of her vacation was not having to worry about feeding the little household, and that night the spotless table—adorned with ferns and wild roses in its center—was brimming with delights for the hungry wanderers who gathered around it. Thinking back to how hard I had worked to gather those berries," Dun Ham said, gazing pensively at the piled dish beside Miss Martha, "it feels like a sacrilege to actually eat them." Aunt Martha, he didn't pick a pint!" protested Sylvia. " He ought not to keep one. John asked her what she had done. She boasts a sleek, aesthetic appearance, but I assure you her eye for culinary delight is unmatched. She hasn't dropped a single prized berry into those fields. Have you seen her booty?" " No. What does he mean, Sylvia?" " All he intends is to divert attention away from his own laziness. No, I don't. I plan to pick a few of your plump berries. Don't you, Edna? I’m sure she hasn’t mixed them with the rest. Have you, now?" Sylvia laughed and colored. " No," she answered. " Then get them," said John. " They'll be good for nothing cold. Also, I’d like Miss Lacey to see them. Where are they?" Sylvia smiled, her eyes lowered, merely glancing toward Edna, who answered on her behalf. It was probably under a glass case in her room. I told you she would craft a necklace from those berries. Anyway, you certainly don't deserve one. As Sylvia noted, Miss Martha, he shirked in that field in a manner that was painful to witness. "Well, he’s had to stoop this far," Miss Martha replied, giving Dunham an approving look. It must be taking a toll on him. "Oh, you haven’t met him," Edna retorted. There's nothing he won't stoop to. He arrived with us, plucked about ten berries, and then—"Miss Lacey," John interrupted, "your thoughtful nature makes it a pleasure to recount what transpired." Before lunch, I took a dip with our guide, philosopher, and friend. The girls’ suspicion was so strong that they wouldn’t let me pick berries until after lunch. We then set about clearing every item in sight, sparing only the boxes. I think Benny ate those. After that, I felt as if I could slip into a brief nap, but noticing that only the guide, philosopher, and friend were donning black stockings, I abandoned that thought. Miss Lacey looked up questioningly, blinking through her glasses, yet the speaker went on: “Moreover, the girls wouldn’t give me a chance to try.” They hauled me into the field and forced me to haul every pail. They were eager to help as long as the things remained empty. I had been laboring patiently for about ten minutes before realizing it was absurd to enter a Turkish bath after the glorious cold plunge I’d just enjoyed, and the look the guide, philosopher, and friend wore as we left him returned to me with an appeal. “You’re well aware of how serious the relationship between him and Edna is, and I felt myself in a delicate position.” I wondered, “Could I simply act in a more generous way?” Why not cut ice with Benny, which would cool me? I’ll return to the boat and hand my spot over to him. I did it. Ask him how he feels about what I did. Miss Lacey replied calmly amid the jeers that followed Dunham’s explanation, “Well, if you’ve had a good time, that’s all that’s necessary.” That's what vacations are for. " After supper the party made its way to the piazza, and when Sylvia saw Edna reclining in a hammock with John by the boulder railing, she hurried back into the house to see her aunt. Would Jenny mind if I lingered by the stove for a moment while she took care of the dishes? she asked eagerly. " “Why, no,” hesitated Miss Martha, surprised. What do you want to do?" " I want to make something with my berries. | "Did you know my brother was ill?" Belinda asked, returning still motionless. No. "I thought he was simply overtired." The other one nodded in agreement. That's the manner in which they handle it. They chase money obsessively, grinding for ever more, until they ultimately crumble in a sudden collapse. The desolate sister stared into the distance, dreaming of ill‑fated memories as a barefoot boy frolicked beside her, his nest of rocks the backdrop to their fleeting joy. Suddenly her distant gaze returned, shifting to the pitiful eyes that stared at her drawn, pallid face. She simply said, “I’m glad you’re here.” I was glad, the other replied, her thoughts fixated on Linda and Bertram as she longed to be with them. Will you stay in my cottage until I return? Every day, a little girl comes by to help. Her culinary skills are rather impressive. She’ll be staying with you. Yes, Miss Barry." The visitor was on the verge of saying, “You’ll bring Linda back with you,” yet she chose to hold her tongue. She was sure that this shared sorrow would find its way between the aunt and her niece. No further inaction remained. A trunk was packed, and Mrs. Porter accompanied the traveler to Portland, spending the night at the hotel where she had left her belongings; Miss Barry continued her sorrowful journey. At the Chicago station Henry Radcliffe met her, and as they got into the car, Miss Barry turned to him with a dim, unfocused glance. What was the problem with Lambert? His pallid face radiated a restless excitement, as if haunted by sleeplessness. Have you not seen the papers? No. My head ached, so I didn’t read them. What exactly do you mean? Her voice tightened. Barry & Co. have fallen apart. What does that matter to me? Lambert! My brother! "Tell me about him!" It dragged many innocent lives into the crash. Alas, my ill‑fated brother! What about him, Henry? Tell me. Tell me. " He turned his head away, and his voice thickened. He died in the office. Heart trouble?" " Yes. He never told us whether he had a weak heart. The shock was overwhelming. The young man reached for his companion and grasped his hand in a tentative, searching grasp. Linda is prostrated. We have had to rescue her by every possible means. Poor Harriet! She has had to take on the role of a heroine. The speaker’s voice thickened and choked again, and hand‑in‑hand the two kept an unbroken silence until the car pulled up before the house on Michigan Avenue, where lilies and ferns hung against the heavy door. In the long, monotonous days after the funeral, Miss Barry and her niece spent the time alone in the large, echoing house. Harriet had gone back home with her husband and child. The newspapers continued to echo the Barry tragedy, yet it was easy to shield Linda from them, as her once‑stormy grief had wavered into sheer listlessness. On that morning, Miss Barry sat by the window in her niece’s room, fingers knitting absent‑mindedly, while Linda—her white negligee fluttering—moved through the apartment as if every spring in her supple, young body had forgotten itself. Occasionally, the older woman would peer over the rim of her glasses at the girl's expressionless face. Miss Belinda, numb from shock, still felt the instinctive compulsion that everyone shared—to stand as a barrier between Linda and a full grasp of the situation. Since the girl's breakfast tray was removed that morning, they had remained in hushed silence. The aunt thought, “The only way to avoid error is to keep my tongue still.” She is aware I’m here, and whenever I can help her, I’ll gladly do it. The housekeeper answered that she needed a task, so she kept busy while Linda drifted around lazily, apparently unaware of her presence. While they still remained in that condition, a card was brought up. Miss Barry retrieved it from the maid. “Bertram, King, and Linda,” she said. Will you see him?" She was surprised to see a sudden burst of life spring into the girl’s eyes. No," answered Linda clearly. Her aunt hovered uncertain, linen in one hand and a card in the other. Shall I meet him then? she asked. " It makes no difference to me, Aunt Belinda. The maid lingered, eyeing both of them with a curious glance. Miss Barry, after a moment of waiting, replied, “Henry says Mr. King’s been wonderful.” He was a tremendous help to all, never losing his composure and always weighing the right course of action, even in his distress. "I'm not—" Linda began, but her lips trembled and she swallowed her words. "I can't see him," she finished abruptly. Miss Barry nodded comprehension. Naturally, the associations would feel overwhelming. “I’ll head downstairs,” she said, exhaling and setting her work aside. I suppose I’ll tell him you thank him for everything he’s done and for the flowers he gives each day. No." Linda met her aunt, and again the spark of life flickered in her eyes. I will not be sending any message. Remember that. " Miss Barry frowned in confusion, recalling the whispered confidences Mrs. Porter had shared about King. "Oh, law," she thought, feeling weary, "she must have turned him down." Downstairs, the woman in the black dress slipped past her skirt trailing, entering the reception room where a hollow‑eyed young man waited. Her recent days had brought his face into her perception, turning it from a stranger into an almost familiar presence. Good morning, Mr. King. Good-morning, Miss Barry." His eyes demanded her answer with a hungry intensity. I guess I should apologise for arriving at this hour, but I’m terribly keen to know how Linda is. She's up and about. Sit down. " " Is it impossible for me to see her? While Miss Barry took a seat, the speaker stayed standing. His wistful eyes remained fixed, their gaze hinting at unanswered questions. Yes, Mr. King. Just impossible. She hasn't seen anybody. She doesn't even register my presence. Miss Belinda smiled, her expression tinged with a rueful sorrow. I simply sit there next to her. I’m unsure whether she realizes I’m present. King settled into his chair, and the other man continued: “To be honest, I need to see you alone, Mr. King.” I want to understand what Henry means when he says Barry & Co. have gone to pieces. That's not the case, is it? Yes, practically." King stared at the floor, clasping his hands together. The failure of a vast undertaking—and the realization that satisfying every investor was impossible—was what killed your brother. A run on the bank sealed our misfortunes, yet I am taking every step Mr. Barry would have taken, and the turmoil will subside once the public sees that we too are sharing in the same suffering. Then, will Linda be poor? Miss Barry whispered her question. Yes, she’ll regard it as a poor state, but I do know Linda. She yearned for justice to be served. I must see her. I must see her as soon as she can meet with me and Harriet. I understand what Mr. Barry wishes, but it must be a mutual agreement. “I haven’t forgotten,” the young man said kindly, “that this, too, will affect you financially.” You mean my allowance? I’m grateful, Mr. King, that I’ve spent only a modest amount and that I still possess the house my dear brother gave me. I never felt entirely certain that no reversals would occur. Businessmen who become as wealthy as Lambert are like astronauts. Who can predict when an unexpected gust will strike their ship? I appreciate your wisdom. I assure you that ever since the catastrophe, I have frequently thought of you. Miss Barry regarded the speaker with a warm, kindly smile. The hardships of his situation overwhelmed her. Have I told you that I left Mrs. Porter staying in my house? I knew she was looking forward to meeting you. Yes, she was there when the message arrived and helped me in every possible way. What mattered most was her assurance that no one would seize my cottage while I was away. King sighed, “I wish she were here with Linda, even if just for a moment.” I believe she can come closer to her than anyone else. "I suppose there's no doubt," Miss Barry replied without enthusiasm, "that my niece will go to her." There is no doubt that I should take her home with me and let the sea soothe her. She could opt to stay with Harriet. I will grant her the choice. I guess we will have to sell this house. I suppose so. | 0.6 | Young women -- Fiction | Burnham, Clara Louise | Burnham, Clara Louise | 25954 | 53049 | Burnham, Clara Louise_[The Opened Shutters: A Novel]_1500_40_0.7 | Burnham, Clara Louise_[Instead of the Thorn: A Novel]_1500_12_0.8 |
That Captain Windham was ashamed of his attack on a practically unarmed man he could understand; he would have had precisely the same scruples in his place, and he would certainly have felt the same rage and humiliation had he been deserted by his followers in so disgraceful a manner (though he could not imagine Highlanders ever acting so). And, observing the dejection revealed in Captain Windham's attitude, where he stood with bowed head and folded arms by the dying fire, and the complete absence in him of any of that mocking irony with which he himself had more than once made acquaintance at Ardroy, Ewen began to feel less vindictive about the incident of the guineas. Captain Windham, being an Englishman, did not understand Highland pride, and had probably never intended any insult at all. And now, with this sudden turning of the tables, he was again a prisoner, made in rather an absurd and ignominious fashion. Ewen could find it in his heart to be sorry for him. And what would be the advantage of yet another prisoner? The officers taken at Gladsmuir had had to be paroled and sent away. . . He picked up the fallen sword, faintly smeared with red along its edges, and went over to the hearth. "Captain Windham!" The scarlet-clad figure turned. "Your Camerons are very tardy!" he said with a bitter intonation. "Or are those yells all we are to know of them?" It was indeed sufficiently surprising that the rescuers had not entered the house some minutes ago, particularly as the door was broken open. Ewen listened. "I think that they are possibly chasing . . . a retreating enemy. But in any case"—he held out Keith's sword—"I cannot stomach taking advantage of your being left in the lurch by those rascals. Put on your sword again, and I'll convey you safely out of the house. " A dull flush swept over the English soldier's face. "You mean that I am to run the gauntlet of those caterans, when they return, under your protection? No; I have been humiliated enough this evening; it would be less galling to go as a prisoner. Keep my sword; 'tis the second of mine you have had, Mr. Cameron. " Yes, he was sore, and no wonder! Ewen decided that he would not even mention the objectionable guineas. "I cannot hold this sword much longer," he said lightly, "having but the one hand at present.—No, the caterans shall not see you at all, Captain Windham, and you shall go alone. Only, for Heaven's sake, be quick, for some of them must soon be here! " Bewildered, half reluctant, Keith closed his fingers on the hilt held out to him, and Ewen drew him to the escritoire on the right of the hearth. When he pushed it aside the panel behind slid slowly back. Keith Windham stood before the gap momentarily speechless. "That, then——" he began at last, thickly. "Yes, that is the way my friends went. But you can use the same road. It comes out, I understand, in the West Bow; there you will have to trust to chance, but it seems a dark night. Here, take my cloak,"—he went and picked it up—"'twill cover your uniform. And you must have a candle to light you down. " To these directions and the proffered candlestick and cloak the baffled hunter paid no heed. "Your friends!" he said between his teeth. "The Pretender's son, you mean! He was here this evening, then, in this very room! " "Yes, but he was gone a little time before you entered," answered Ewen soothingly. "I was only troubled lest the door should slide open and betray the path he took. But 'tis of no moment now. " "No, it's of no moment now!" repeated Windham bitterly. Wrath, reluctant admiration, disappointment and concern for what he had so nearly done—and not in fair fight—to the man before him strove openly in his tone as he went on: "Is this your revenge for——"—he pointed to the swathed right hand—"and for my outwitting you last August? It's a sharp one, for all that it's generous. . . . Yes, you have fairly outmanœuvred me, Ardroy, with your secret stair and your clansmen so pat to the moment, like a stage play! But I warn you that this mumming will turn to grim earnest some day; there'll be a bloody curtain to the comedy, and you will regret that ever you played a part in it! " "That depends, does it not, on how many more battles of Gladsmuir we have?" retorted Ewen, with a smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. "But go—go!" for at last there had come a rush of feet up the stairs, and the rescue party (oblivious of the bolt) were hammering upon the door with cries. He thrust the candlestick and the cloak—the Prince's cloak—into the Englishman's hands, calling out something in Gaelic over his shoulder the while. "Go—they'll have the door down in another minute!" He almost pushed Captain Windham into the aperture, pressed the spring, and wedged the returning panel with the table, only a second or two before the unfortunate door of Lady Easterhall's drawing-room fell inwards with a crash, and Cameron kilts plunged over it. Walking home with her father next day up the crowded Canongate after rain, Miss Alison Grant suddenly became aware of a tall Highland officer striding up the street some way ahead. From the occasional glimpses of him, which were all that she was able to obtain in the moving throng, it seemed to be her betrothed; but, if so, he was carrying his right arm in a sling. This was disturbing. Moreover Ewen, if it were he—and at any rate the officer was a Cameron—was walking at such a pace that Alison and her parent would never overtake him, unless indeed he were on his way to visit them where they lodged in Hyndford's Close, a little beyond the Netherbow. "Papa," whispered Alison, "let us walk quicker; yonder's Ewen, unless I am much mistaken, on his way to wait upon us, and he must not find us from home. " They quickened their pace, without much visible effect, when lo! their quarry was brought to a standstill by two gentlemen coming downwards who encountered and stopped him. "Now let us go more slowly, sir," suggested Alison, dragging at her father's arm. To which Mr. Grant, complying, said, "My dear, to be alternately a greyhound and a snail is hard upon a man of my years, nor do I understand why you should be stalking Ardroy in this fashion. " "Ewen is rather like a stag," thought Alison; "he carries his head like one.—Papa," she explained, "I want to know—I must know—why he wears his arm in a sling! Look, now that he has turned a little you can see it plainly. And, you remember, he disappeared so strangely last night. And now, crawl as they would, they must pass the three gentlemen, who made way for them instantly, not to turn the lady with her hooped petticoats into the swirling gutter. As Ewen—for it was he—raised his bonnet with his left hand, Alison cast a swift and comprehensive glance over him, though she did not pause for the fraction of a second, but, acknowledging his salutation and those of his companions, went on her way with dignity. But she walked ever slower and slower, and when she came to the narrow entrance of their close she stopped. Yet even then she did not look back down the Canongate. "Papa, did you hear, those gentlemen were asking Ewen what had befallen him. I heard something about 'disturbance' and 'Grassmarket'. You saw his hand was all bandaged about. He looked pale, I thought. What can he have been at last night—not fighting a duel, surely!" "Well, my dear, here he is, so he can tell us—that is, if he is disposed to do so," observed Mr. Grant. "Good day, Ardroy; were you coming in-bye?" "I intended it, later on," replied Ewen with more truth than tact, "but——" "But now you see that you behove to at this moment," finished Alison with determination, looking very significantly at his arm; and Ewen, without another word, went obediently up the close with them, secretly admired from above by a well-known Whig lady who happened to be at her window, and who remarked to her maid that the Jacobite Miss lodging overhead had a braw lover, for all he was a wild Hielandman. And presently the wild Hielandman was standing in the middle of Mr. Grant's parlour, and the Jacobite Miss was declaring that she could shake him, so little could she get out of him. | " That night, they tied up at Jackson—to be famous long after the war as the seat of a bitter mountain-feud. At noon the next day, they struck "the Nahrrers" (Narrows), where the river ran like a torrent between high steep walls of rock, and where the men stood to the oars watchfully and the old squire stood upright, watching every movement of the raft; for "bowing" there would have meant destruction to the raft and the death of them all. That night they were in Beattyville, whence they floated next day, along lower hills and, now and then, past a broad valley. Once Chad looked at the school-master—he wondered if they were approaching the Bluegrass—but Caleb Hazel smiled and shook his head. And had Chad waited another half hour, he would not have asked the question, even with his eyes, for they swept between high cliffs again—higher than he had yet seen. That night they ran from dark to dawn, for the river was broader and a brilliant moon was high; and, all night, Chad could hear the swish of the oars, as they floated in mysterious silence past the trees and the hills and the moonlit cliffs, and he lay on his back, looking up at the moon and the stars, and thinking about the land to which he was going and of Jack back in the land he had left; and of little Melissa. She had behaved very strangely during the last few days before the boy had left. She had not been sharp with him, even in play. She had been very quiet—indeed, she scarcely spoke a word to him, but she did little things for him that she had never done before, and she was unusually kind to Jack. Once, Chad found her crying behind the barn, and then she was very sharp with him, and told him to go away and cried more than ever. Her little face looked very white, as she stood on the bank, and, somehow, Chad saw it all that night in the river and among the trees and up among the stars, but he little knew what it all meant to him or to her. He thought of the Turners back at home, and he could see them sitting around the big fire—Joel with his pipe, the old mother spinning flax, Jack asleep on the hearth, and Melissa's big solemn eyes shining from the dark corner where she lay wide-awake in bed and, when he went to sleep, her eyes followed him in his dreams. When he awoke, the day was just glimmering over the hills, and the chill air made him shiver, as he built up the fire and began to get breakfast ready. At noon, that day, though the cliffs were still high, the raft swung out into a broader current, where the water ran smoothly and, once, the hills parted and, looking past a log-cabin on the bank of the river, Chad saw a stone house—relic of pioneer days—and, farther out, through a gap in the hills, a huge house with great pillars around it and, on the hill-side, many sheep and fat cattle and a great barn. There dwelt one of the lords of the Bluegrass land, and again Chad looked to the school-master and, this time, the school-master smiled and nodded as though to say: "We're getting close now, Chad." So Chad rose to his feet thrilled, and watched the scene until the hills shut it off again. One more night and one more dawn, and, before the sun rose, the hills had grown smaller and smaller and the glimpses between them more frequent and, at last, far down the river, Chad saw a column of smoke and all the men on the raft took off their hats and shouted. The end of the trip was near, for that black column meant the capital! Chad trembled on his feet and his heart rose into his throat, while Caleb Hazel seemed hardly less moved. His hat was off and he stood motionless, with his face uplifted, and his grave eyes fastened on that dark column as though it rose from the pillar of fire that was leading him to some promised land. As they rounded the next curve, some monster swept out of the low hills on the right, with a shriek that startled the boy almost into terror and, with a mighty puffing and rumbling, shot out of sight again. The school-master shouted to Chad, and the Turner brothers grinned at him delightedly: "Steam-cars!" they cried, and Chad nodded back gravely, trying to hold in his wonder. Sweeping around the next curve, another monster hove in sight with the same puffing and a long "h-o-o-ot!" A monster on the river and moving up stream steadily, with no oar and no man in sight, and the Turners and the school-master shouted again. Chad's eyes grew big with wonder and he ran forward to see the rickety little steamboat approach and, with wide eyes, devoured it, as it wheezed and labored up-stream past them—watched the thundering stern-wheel threshing the water into a wake of foam far behind it and flashing its blades, water-dripping in the sun—watched it till it puffed and wheezed and labored on out of sight. Great Heavens! to think that he—Chad—was seeing all that! About the next bend, more but thinner columns of smoke were visible. Soon the very hills over the capital could be seen, with little green wheat-fields dotting them and, as the raft drew a little closer, Chad could see houses on the hills—more strange houses of wood and stone, and porches, and queer towers on them from which glistened shining points. "What's them?" he asked. "Lightnin'-rods," said Tom, and Chad understood, for the school-master had told him about them back in the mountains. Was there anything that Caleb Hazel had not told him? The haze over the town was now visible, and soon they swept past tall chimneys puffing out smoke, great warehouses covered on the outside with weather-brown tin, and, straight ahead—Heavens, what a bridge!—arching clear over the river and covered like a house, from which people were looking down on them as they swept under. There were the houses, in two rows on the streets, jammed up against each other and without any yards. And people! Where had so many people come from? Close to the river and beyond the bridge was another great mansion, with tall pillars, about it was a green yard, as smooth as a floor, and negroes and children were standing on the outskirting stone wall and looking down at them as they floated by. And another great house still, and a big garden with little paths running through it and more patches of that strange green grass. Was that bluegrass? It was, but it didn't look blue and it didn't look like any other grass Chad had ever seen. Below this bridge was another bridge, but not so high, and, while Chad looked, another black monster on wheels went crashing over it. Tom and the school-master were working the raft slowly to the shore now, and, a little farther down, Chad could see more rafts tied up—rafts, rafts, nothing but rafts on the river, everywhere! Up the bank a mighty buzzing was going on, amid a cloud of dust, and little cars with logs on them were shooting about amid the gleamings of many saws, and, now and then, a log would leap from the river and start up toward that dust-cloud with two glistening iron teeth sunk in one end and a long iron chain stretching up along a groove built of boards—and Heaven only knew what was pulling it up. On the bank was a stout, jolly-looking man, whose red, kind face looked familiar to Chad, as he ran down shouting a welcome to the Squire. Then the raft slipped along another raft, Tom sprang aboard it with the grape-vine cable, and the school-master leaped aboard with another cable from the stern. "Why, boy," cried the stout man. "Where's yo' dog?" Then Chad recognized him, for he was none other than the cattle-dealer who had given him Jack. "I left him at home. " "Is he all right?" "Yes—I reckon. " "Then I'd like to have him back again. " Chad smiled and shook his head. "Not much. " "Well, he's the best sheep-dog on earth. " The raft slowed up, creaking—slower—straining and creaking, and stopped. The trip was over, and the Squire had made his "record," for the red-faced man whistled incredulously when the old man told him what day he had left Kingdom Come. | 0 | Historical fiction | Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen) | Fox, John | 72918 | 2059 | Broster, D. K. (Dorothy Kathleen)_[Algemeene Geschiedenis in Verhalen: Oudheid]_1500_30 | Fox, John_[The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come]_1500_12 |
"He should have been a navigator. He could have been a fellow at Trinity House. " "What is that?" "It's a guild in England. Where navigators are trained. " She laughed. "I think he preferred a world made only of numbers." Her laugh was gone as quickly as it had come, and she moved toward him with a vaguely troubled look. "What have you found?" "A lot of things. Take a look at this drawing." Hawksworth tried to remain nonchalant as he moved the lamp back to the table from where he had placed it on the floor. "He identified what we call parallax, the slight circular motion of the moon throughout the day caused by the fact it's not sighted from the center of the earth, but from a spot on its surface that moves as the earth rotates. Now if he could measure that accurately enough with these instruments . . . " Shirin waved her hand and laughed again. "If you understand all this, why not just take the papers back to the palace and work with them there?" She was in the room now, her olive cheeks exquisitely shadowed by the partially open door, where flickering shadows played lightly through the brilliant sunshine. "Today I'd rather hear you play your English instrument. " "With pleasure. I've been trying to learn an Indian raga." He kept his voice even and moved himself deftly between Shirin and the doorway, blocking her exit. "But it sounds wrong on the lute. When I get to Agra I'm thinking I'll have a sitar made . . . " He reached as though for the lute, then swung his hand upward and clapped it over Shirin's mouth. Before she could move he shoved her against the wall beside the door and stretched with his other hand to seize the heavy brass astrolabe that rested on a stand by the table. He caught a look of pure terror in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she might scream. He pressed her harder against the wall to seal her mouth, and as the shaft of light from the doorway dimmed momentarily he stepped forward and swung the brass astrolabe upward. There was a soft sound of impact, followed by a choked groan and the clatter of metal against the wooden door. He drew back the astrolabe, now with a trace of blood along its sharp edge and the remains of a tooth wedged between its discs. Then he looked out to see a dark- skinned Indian man in a loincloth rolling himself across the top of the garden wall. A faint splash followed, as he dropped into the moat. When Hawksworth released Shirin and placed the astrolabe back on its stand, he caught the glint of sunshine off a stiletto lying in the doorway. He bent down to retrieve it and suddenly she was next to him, holding his arm and staring at the place where the man had scaled the wall. "He was a Sudra, a low caste." She looked at the stiletto in Hawksworth's hand, and her voice turned to scorn. "It's Portuguese. Only the Portuguese would hire someone like that, instead of a Rajput. " Then she laughed nervously. "If they'd hired a Rajput, someone would be dead now. Hire a Sudra and you get a Sudra's work. " "Who was it?" "Who knows? The horse bazaar is full of men who would kill for ten rupees." She pointed toward the wall. "Do you see that piece of cloth? There on the old spike. I think it's a piece of his dhoti. Would you get it for me?" After Hawksworth had retrieved the shred of cotton loincloth, brown from a hundred washings in the river, she had taken it from him without a word. "What will you do with it?" "Don't." She touched a finger to his lips. "These are things it's best not to ask." Then she tucked the brown scrap into the silken sash at her waist and moved toward the door. "And it would be better if you forgot about today. " Hawksworth watched her for a second, then seized her arm and turned her facing him. "I may not know what's going on. But, by Jesus, I'll know before you leave. And you can start by telling me why you come here. " She stared back at him for a moment, meeting his eyes. There was something in them he had never seen before, almost admiration. Then she caught herself and drew back, dropping into a chair. "Very well. Perhaps you do deserve to know." She slipped the translucent scarf from her hair and tossed it across the table. "Why don't you open the wine you brought? I'll not tell you everything, because you shouldn't want me to, but I'll tell you what's important for you. " Hawksworth remembered how he had slowly poured the wine for her, his hand still trembling. "Have you ever heard of Samad?" she had begun, taking a small sip. "I think he's the poet Mukarrab Khan quoted once. He called him a Sufi rascal. " "Is that what he said? Good. That only confirms once again what I think of His Excellency." She laughed with contempt. "Samad is a great poet. He's perhaps the last great Persian writer, in the tradition of Omar Khayyam. He has favored me by allowing me to be one of his disciples. " "So you come here to write poems?" "When I feel something I want to say. " "But I've also found lists of names here, and numbers. " "I told you I can't tell you everything." Shirin's look darkened momentarily as she drank again lightly from the cup, then settled it on the table. He found himself watching her face, drawn to her by something he could not fully understand. "But I can tell you this. There's someone in India who will one day rid us of the infidel Portuguese. Do you know of Prince Jadar?" "He's the son of the Moghul. I'm guessing he'll probably succeed one day. " "He should. If he's not betrayed. Things are very unsettled in Agra. He has many enemies there." She paused. "He has enemies here. " "I'm not sure I understand. " "Then you should. Because what happens in Agra will affect everyone. Even you. " "But what does Agra politics have to do with me? The knife was Portuguese. " "To understand what's happening, you should first know about Akman, the one we remember now as the Great Moghul. He was the father of Arangbar, the Moghul now. I was only a small girl when Akman died, but I still remember my sadness, my feeling the universe would collapse. We worshiped him almost. It's not talked about now, but the truth is Akman didn't really want Arangbar to succeed him, nobody did. But he had no choice. In fact, when Akman died, Arangbar's eldest son started a rebellion to deny him the throne, but that son's troops betrayed him, and after they surrendered Arangbar blinded him in punishment. Khusrav, his own son. Although Prince Jadar was still only a young boy then, we all thought after that he would be Moghul himself one day. But that was before the Persians came to power in Agra. " "But aren't you Persian yourself?" "I was born in India, but yes, I have the great fortune to be of Persian blood. There are many Persians in India. You know, Persians still intimidate the Moghuls. Ours is a magnificent culture, an ancient culture, and Persians never let the Moghuls forget it." Shirin had dabbed at her brow and rose to peer out the door of the observatory building, as though by instinct. "Did you know that the first Moghul came to India less than a hundred years ago, actually after the Portuguese? He was named Babur, a distant descendant of the Mongol warrior Genghis Khan, and he was from Central Asia. Babur was the grandfather of Akman. They say he had wanted to invade Persia but that the ruling dynasty, the Safavis, was too strong. So he invaded India instead, and the Moghuls have been trying to make it into Persia ever since. That's why Persians can always find work in India. They teach their language at court, and give lessons in fashion, and in painting and garden design. Samad came here from Persia, and now he's the national poet. " "What do these Persians have to do with whatever's happening in Agra? Are you, or your family, somehow involved too?" "My father was Shayhk Mirak." She hesitated a moment, as though expecting a response. Then she continued evenly, "Of course, you'd not know of him. He was a court painter. | Even the threats of the pope, which although Prince John defied them yet terrified him at heart, were derided by his follower, who feared no one thing in the world, save, perhaps, the return of King Richard from captivity. No sooner had the suspicion that his rival was in the neighborhood possessed him than he determined that one of two things must be carried out: either Sir Cuthbert must be killed, or the Lady Margaret must be carried off and forced to accept him as her husband. First he endeavored to force Sir Cuthbert to declare himself and to trust to his own arm to put an end to his rival. To that end he caused a proclamation to be written, and to be affixed to the door of the village church at the fair of Evesham. Cnut and several of his followers were there, all quietly dressed as yeomen. Seeing a crowd round the door of the church, he pressed forward. Being himself unable to read writing, he asked one of the burgesses what was written upon the paper which caused such excitement. "It is," the burgess said, "in the nature of a cartel or challenge from our present lord, Sir Rudolph. He says that it having come to his ears that a Saxon serf, calling himself Sir Cuthbert, Earl of Evesham, is lurking in the woods and consorting with outlaws and robbers, he challenges him to appear, saying that he will himself, grievously although he would demean himself by so doing, yet condescend to meet him in the lists with sword and battle-ax, and to prove upon his body the falseness of his averments. Men marvel much," the burgess continued, "at this condescension on the earl's part. We have heard indeed that King Richard, before he sailed for England, did, at the death of the late good earl, bestow his rank and the domains of Evesham upon Sir Cuthbert, the son of the Dame Editha. Whether it be true or not, we cannot say; but it seems strange that such honor should have been bestowed upon one so young. In birth indeed he might aspire to the rank, since his father, Sir Walter, was a brave knight, and the mother, Dame Editha, was of good Saxon blood, and descended from those who held Evesham before the arrival of the Normans. " Cnut's first impulse was to stride forward and to tear down the proclamation. But the remembrance of his solemn determination not in future to act rashly came across him, and he decided to take no steps until he had reported the facts to his master, and taken his counsel thereon. Cuthbert received the news with much indignation. "There is naught that I should like better," he said, "than to try my strength against that of this false traitor. But although I have proved my arm against the Saracens, I think not that it is yet strong enough to cope against a man who, whatsoever be his faults, is said to be a valiant knight. But that would not deter me from attempting the task. It is craftily done on the part of Sir Rudolph. He reckons that if I appear he will kill me; that if I do not appear, I shall be branded as a coward, and my claims brought into disrepute. It may be, too, that it is a mere ruse to discover if I be in the neighborhood. Some rumors thereof may have reached him, and he has taken this course to determine upon their truth. He has gone too far, and honest men will see in the cartel itself a sign that he misdoubts him that my claims are just; for were I, as he says, a Saxon serf, be sure that he would not condescend to meet me in the lists as he proposes. I trust that the time will come when I may do so. But at present I will submit to his insult rather than imperil the success of our plans, and, what is of far greater importance, the safety and happiness of the Lady Margaret, who, did aught befall me, would assuredly fall into his hands. " After some thought, however, Cuthbert drew up an answer to the knight's proclamation. He did not in this speak in his own name, but wrote as if the document were the work of Cnut. It was worded as follows: "I, Cnut, a free Saxon and a leader of bowmen under King Richard in the Holy Land, do hereby pronounce and declare the statements of Sir Rudolph, miscalled the Earl of Evesham, to be false and calumnious. The earldom was, as Rudolph well knows, and as can be proved by many nobles and gentlemen of repute who were present with King Richard, granted to Sir Cuthbert, King Richard's true and faithful follower. When the time shall come Sir Cuthbert will doubtless be ready to prove his rights. But at present right has no force in England, and until the coming of our good King Richard must remain in abeyance. Until then, I support the title of Sir Cuthbert, and do hereby declare Sir Rudolph a false and perjured knight; and warn him that if he falls into my hands it will fare but badly with him, as I know it will fare but badly with me should I come into his. " At nightfall the cartel of Sir Rudolph was torn down from the church and that of Cnut affixed in its place. The reading thereof caused great astonishment in Evesham, and the rage of Sir Rudolph, when the news came to his ears, was very great. Cuthbert was sure that this affair would quicken the intentions of Sir Rudolph with regard to the Lady Margaret, and he received confirmation of this in a letter which the abbess sent him, saying that she had received another missive from Sir Rudolph, authoritatively demanding in the king's name the instant surrender of Lady Margaret to him. That night forty archers stole, one by one, quietly into Worcester, entering the town before the gates were shut, and so mingling with the citizens that they were unobserved. When it was quite dark they quietly took their way, one by one, to the square in which stood the convent, and were admitted into the shop of Master Nicholas, the silk mercer. The house was a large one, with its floors overhanging each the one beneath it, as was the custom of the time, and with large casements running the whole width of the house. The mercer had laid by a goodly store of provisions, and for three days the troop, large as it was, was accommodated there. Cuthbert himself was with them, Cnut remaining at the grange with the ten men originally sent there. On the third day Sir Rudolph, with a number of knights and men-at-arms, arrived in the town, giving out that he was passing northward, but he would abide that night at the hostelry. A great many of his men-at-arms did, as those on the watch observed, enter one by one into the town. The people of Worcester were somewhat surprised at this large accompaniment of the earl, but thought no harm. The Abbess of St. Anne's, however, was greatly terrified, as she feared that some evil design might be intended against her. She was, however, reassured in the evening by a message brought by a boy, to the effect that succor would be near, whatsoever happened. At midnight a sudden uproar was heard in the streets of Worcester. A party of men fell upon the burgesses guarding the gate of the town, disarmed them, and took possession of it. At the same time those who had put up at the hostelry with Sir Rudolph suddenly mounted their horses, and with a great clatter rode down the streets to the convent of St. Anne. Numbers of men on foot also joined, and some sixty in all suddenly appeared before the great gate of the convent. With a thundering noise they knocked at the door, and upon the grating being opened Sir Rudolph himself told the porteress who looked through it that she was to go at once to the abbess and order her to surrender the body of the Lady Margaret to him, in accordance with the order of Prince John; adding, that if within the space of five minutes the order was not complied with, he would burst in the gates of the convent and take her for himself. In another minute a casement opened above, and the abbess herself appeared. "Rash man," she said to Sir Rudolph, "I warn you against committing the sin of sacrilege. | 0 | Historical fiction | Hoover, Thomas | Henty, G. A. (George Alfred) | 34322 | 13354 | Hoover, Thomas_[The Moghul]_1500_45 | Henty, G. A. (George Alfred)_[The Boy Knight: A Tale of the Crusades]_1500_52 |
"Go ahead, Lucky," Bob whispered. " I've got him covered. " " "My man, he saw you on the spot," Lucky said as he took a few steps forward in the deep snow. The other, who was on snow-shoes, advanced to meet him and in a moment they were close together. The stranger carried a rifle, but he slung it over his shoulder as if he had no intention of using it. On his snow-shoes he towered nearly two feet above Lucky. " You no Lareux," the boys heard him say. " Who heem?" Lucky asked. " Heem ver' bad mans. Heem keel one of my mans an' we hunt heem. " " When heem keel heem?" " Tree, mebby four day ago," the stranger answered somewhat evasively Bob thought. " Where you leeve, eh?" Lucky asked after a pause of a moment. " Up nor'. " " How far?" " What for you ask question so mooch?" It was plain that the man was rapidly loosening his patience of which he probably had no great store. " You ask first," Lucky told him pleasantly. " Dat my beesness. " " Mine too. " " How many mans you got?" " Some. How many you?" " You see some man yes'day?" the stranger next asked without replying to the question. " Non." " Day 'fore dat?" " Non." " All right. We go now. You no man we want. " He turned and slipped silently back into the forest, and the boys watched as others slipped from behind trees, following him. What do you make of it?" Bob asked as soon as the Indian was back in the "bed room. " For a moment Lucky hesitated. " Injun no like dat man," he finally said. " You think he's no good?" " Mebby. Injun tink heem—what you call heem?—one beeg bluff. " " You mean you think he was after us and not that man he mentioned?" " Oui." " Then why did he leave?" " Heem heap big coward. Heem no know how many here. " " You think he'll come back?" " Mebby. No can tell. " " Well, it's after three o'clock now. I reckon we'd better keep an eye open, eh?" " Injun watch. White boys go sleep. " Both declared that they had slept enough to be in no mood to fall back to bed, so they built a fire and the Indian kept them entertained with an inexhaustible stream of stories for the next two hours. Every few minutes, one of them would rise and look around; they didn't expect him to return so soon, but they wanted to be on the safe side. How about eats?" Bob asked when his watch told him that it was nearly six o'clock. " You wait leetle minute," Lucky said as he got to his feet. " What you going to do?" Bob asked. " Injun scout 'round leetle 'fore we geet eats. Mebby they hide somewhere, take shot, oui." " You'll be careful?" " Oui. Injun look out ver' queek. " While talking the Indian had jumped out of the hole and was fastening on his snow-shoes. " You no geet out till Injun come back," he ordered. " You're the boss," Jack told him and the next moment he was gone. " Hope he isn't gone long," Bob said as he sat down again. " He seems to think of everything," Jack said. " We would have just gone out, started breakfast, and turned ourselves into a perfect target without even considering it. Perhaps." " Probably." " Perhaps." " Perhaps what?" Jack snapped. " Perhaps, probably," Bob laughed and Jack joined in. A half hour passed and they were beginning to get uneasy when the Indian returned. " All gone," he announced. " Good. Now we can get something to eat and, believe me, I'm about starved. " " Same here," Jack added. " “We need to be very careful,” Lucky cautioned as they were about to begin their trek up the river an hour later. You think they may be coming back?" Bob asked. " No can tell. We—what you call heem?—play heem safe. " " You bet," Jack declared. " That's my motto, 'play safe'. " " Since when?" Bob asked. " Since—since—well, since I got a good look at that half-breed," Jack stammered. " I thought it was of recent origin. " They had planned to travel by river because it was far easier than trekking through the woods, but Lucky advised them that staying in the forest would be safer, insisting that they would be too easy a target if they ventured out into the open. Injun goin' keep leetle way ahead an' white boys follow heem track. No can geet lost. " " No, but you can get shot," Bob said soberly. " Injun no geet shot. Injun got eyes. " " I'll say you have," Jack testified. When everything was ready, the Indian told them to give him a five‑minute head start before moving on with the team. During the trip, the two boys took turns driving the dogs, and though they still lacked much of Lucky’s skill, they managed the task quite well. The Indian followed a path closer to the river than the one their visitors had taken the night before, so they could easily keep up with his tracks. Hope he don't get too far away," Bob said as he gave the order to mush. They had been on the trail for just over an hour when the forest’s hush was suddenly shattered by a rifle shot. What's that?" Bob cried as he ordered the dogs to halt. " There's no doubt about what it was," Jack answered. " The big question is why?" " Was it Lucky's rifle, do you think?" " Don't know. " They listened for a moment or two but there was no other shot. " Maybe he shot at a deer or something," Jack suggested. " If he did, he'll be back in a minute, knowing we won’t understand what’s happening. Well, if he doesn't show up pretty soon I'm going on. Perhaps he's in trouble. " " We'll wait five minutes," Bob said glancing at his watch. The five minutes were just up when they caught sight of the Indian coming toward them at a rapid lope. " What's up?" Bob asked. " Did you shoot?" Jack asked. " No shoot, geet shoot at," he told them. " One of those fellows?" Bob asked. " Injun 'spect so, no see um." " Tell us about it," Jack said as Lucky paused. " Not mooch tell. Injun go 'long like when bang go gun, but no geet heet, so come back. " " Well, what'll we do?" Bob asked. " Do you think he meant to hit you?" Jack asked before the Indian could reply to Bob's question. " Tink heem mean scare Injun. No hear bullet. " " Then I move we go on. I don’t think they intend to kill us; either way, they could just as easily do it anywhere up here if that’s what they’re after. What do you think, Lucky?" Bob asked. " We run dey catch us, we stay here dey find us yer' queek. Mebby we go on. " It wasn’t up to them to decide; just then a second shot rang out, followed by the thud of a bullet embedding itself in the trunk of a tree above Jack’s head. Hey, what's the big idea?" he shouted. In response to the question, a man—who everyone recognized as the visitor from the night before—stepped out from behind a tree about thirty feet away. Instantly Bob had him covered with his rifle. " No shoot," the man cried. " Why not?" Bob demanded. " You've had two shots at us. " " No shoot to hit. " " Well, that last one was a bit too close for comfort," Bob told him still keeping his rifle leveled. " My mans all 'round you. You shoot we keel all. " " That's different." Bob lowered his gun as he had little doubt, but that the man was speaking the truth. " What do you want with us?" he demanded. Instead of replying to the question the breed stepped forward after giving a shrill whistle. Then, instantly, five men stepped out from behind trees on all sides and approached them, confirming that he had spoken the truth. Some reception," Jack whispered. " You come wid us," the big man ordered as he motioned to his men to start north. " What's the idea?" Jack asked. " Huh?" The man snapped. " I mean what are you going to do with us?" " You find dat out later. " " But I want to know now. " Jack was never one to be bossed around unless the person in charge had the right to do so, and he made that clear. No geet heem mad now," Lucky whispered and taking the hint, Jack added: "All right, have it your own way. | 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 struck again no more and only sank into the great breakers all around us. Then the fog went as though by magic and it was daylight. By the time it was too late, we could see everything: Cape Caliente, Port Matoche, and the entire coast stretching out to the Cow and Calves. We were on the Snappers, seven miles west of Caliente. Mr. Dorney had assumed we were among the Chamuceras, thirteen miles east of her. Well, sir, we could take stock of how we were. She lay on her starboard side, a foot or two forward of the stern. We judged that she had been torn open quite severely, as water flooded between her decks. When the wind finally freshened, the ship lay aground and began to grind against the waves. Mr. Dorney eased the ship by furling its sails and prepared the boats for hoisting; when they were ready the vessel was grinding through each swell, crackling like ice, while the sea around her rose thick as syrup. 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 first hoisted every one of her colours—the house flag, the ensign and the number flag—before disembarking from three of the boats. I went in the bo'sun's boat. Just before Mr. Dorney’s boat was thrown over the side, while we were watching from the lee, a massive swell passed beneath us; it struck the old Pathfinder Fair, yanking her violently and hurling everything aboard to starboard with a bang, and the next swell rolled over her entirely. All they could achieve was to get that final boat over. Well, that was the end of it, sir—we had a job to reach Port Matoche, as the wind turned into one of those local northerly gales they call the Arnottos. We landed everyone and escorted the sick to the hospital. Both Mr. Hopkins and the A.B. were considerably better when we departed Port Matoche. The padre, Father Garsinton, was quite recovered. He arrived aboard a coaster to spare us a day while we waited for the mail. The doctor informed us that we had acquired a tropical infection aboard; although he couldn't specify the exact disease, he described it as resembling Medellín throat, a condition he had never encountered before in fatal cases. We were all fumigated, our clothes baked, and that ruined every one of our boots. Did the Pathfinder break up?" Sard asked. " Yes, sir," the boy said. " After the Arnottos subsided, Mr. Dorney, Wolfram, the Bosun, and Sails set out in a shore boat to see if they could salvage anything from her, but they found only the fo'c'sle and forepeak wedged on the rocks, with the fore‑mast still hanging by its standing gear. They said she had broken off just aft of her fore‑hatch, with the rest of her sinking beyond 100 fathoms. They said the worst part was that she was only a ship’s length away from crashing into the Snappers. Another hundred yards would have fetched her clear. " " "No one in our line is permitted a stretch of a hundred yards—nor even a hundred inches," Sard said. A vessel exists in only two states: it is either adrift upon the sea or lodged upon the shore. By then, they had arrived at the entrance of the Sailors' Home. Here you are at your inn," Sard said. " Proceed to your berth, get some rest, and stop roaming the town with flash reefers. They’re useless to you, and they could inflict serious harm. Go to bed, and at breakfast let Mr. Dorney know that I hope to see him at nine in the morning at the agent’s office. After he dismissed the boy, Sard walked back to the Plaza to think. He returned to his table, sipping coffee as the waiters around him began the closing shift. He kept thinking, “Medellín throat—the fatal disease; Captain Cary dead, and the ship tossed upon the Snappers.” The crisp, rhythmic thud of feet echoed down the stairwell as men marched toward the plaza, their cries oddly reverberating like cheers. The waiter at his elbow tapped him and muttered “Cuidado” under his breath. Sard looked up suddenly. Guard officers dressed in green and silver uniforms climbed the staircase into the Plaza, forming three tight squads of four men each. They carried rifles with which they stood on the alert. After them marched two officers who approached Sard, jingling the spurs on their heels, clicking and saluting. 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 recognized him instantly; truly, no one could have failed to know him, for there was no other such man living. He was a magnificent man, his every line and gesture exuding beauty and strength. 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 motionless, watching Sard for half a minute; Sard, head bare, returned his stare. The Dictator, moving very slowly and reverently, removed his hat, bowed to Sard, and stood before him bareheaded. He said no word, but stood there bowed. Sard wished that it might end. The Dictator surged forward, speaking in English punctuated by sharp Spanish interjections. By God, Captain Harker," he said, "I have waited these years, certain you would come." When I heard you had reached the shore at the Plaza, I could scarcely endure the wait. So, give me your hands: no: both hands: so: how are you?" Sard murmured that he was fine and delighted to see the Dictator in good health. 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 among the ones who rescued me during 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. The men aboard the Venturer pulled me from the sea while I was half‑drowned and stood between me and death. He paused for a moment, muttering the customary words he used when moved—half prayers for Carlotta and the rest curses aimed at her killers. "Yes," he muttered, "the swinery—yet they paid with their own blood, save for the two dogs, Don José and Rafael." They wetted those stones of horror with their tears, those swinery. " " There was a boy aboard the Venturer—what you call a reefer—who was in what you refer to as the half‑deck. At dusk, he presented me with a suit of serges and a shirt, saying, “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. " For God's sake, Captain Harker, it was you who performed that act of charity—along with the boy. In the dusk, you remember—by the deckhouse, beneath the chocks of the boats—yet I still do not know its proper name. Por Dios, I remember. " Yes, yes, yes, por Dios; never will I forget. | 0.1 | Adventure stories | Wyman, L. P. (Levi Parker) | Masefield, John | 74044 | 69340 | Wyman, L. P. (Levi Parker)_[The Lakewood boys in the frozen North]_1500_28_0.1 | Masefield, John_[Sard Harker: A novel]_1500_63_0.5 |
Several of us, all more or less connected with the sea, were dining in a small river-hostelry not more than thirty miles from London, and less than twenty from that shallow and dangerous puddle to which our coasting men give the grandiose name of "German Ocean." We gazed through the wide windows at the Thames, enjoying a long, uninterrupted vista down the Lower Hope Reach. The dinner was appalling, yet the entire spread was solely a feast for the eyes. The briny note that had once been the pulse of our lives seeped into every word we exchanged. He who has tasted the ocean’s bitterness will forever carry that flavor in his mouth. Yet a handful of us, wrapped in the easy quiet of land‑bound comforts, confessed their rumbling hunger. It was impossible to swallow any of that stuff. And indeed there was a strange mustiness in everything. The wooden dining‑room jutted over the mud of the shore like a lakeside cabin; its floorboards looked rotten; a decrepit waiter tottered pitifully to and fro before an ancient, worm‑ravaged sideboard; the chipped plates seemed as if they’d been unearthed from a kitchen midden near a settled lake; and the clatter of the chopsticks echoed even older times. They forced the ancient night of primordial times into our minds, when the first man, inventing crude cookery from his dim consciousness, seared lumps of flesh over a fire of sticks alongside fellow wanderers; then, satiated and content, he reclined among gnawed bones to tell his unadorned tales of hunger, hunt, and perhaps—of women. Fortunately, the wine was as old as the waiter. Although the room was relatively sparse, we were broadly content, so we eased back and shared our unembellished tales. We talked of the sea and all its works. The sea remains unchanged, and whatever men preach about its workings, it stays shrouded in mystery. But we agreed that the times were changed. We talked about ancient vessels, maritime mishaps, breakdowns and dismastings, and of a man who guided his ship safely to Liverpool from the River Platte with a jury‑rigged rudder. We spoke of wrecks, of meager rations, and of heroism — at least the kind the papers would have labeled as such, in its own distinct set of virtues, far removed from primitive bravery. Occasionally we all fell silent together and gazed at the river’s scenery. A P. & O. boat passed bound down. " On these vessels one can enjoy truly hearty meals, observed one of us. A man with keen eyesight pronounced the name etched on the vessel's bow: Arcadia. What a beautiful model of a ship! " murmured some of us. A small cargo steamer trailed behind her, and as we watched, the flag they lowered revealed that it was Norwegian. She steamed a great deal of smoke, and before it had fully cleared, a short, high‑sided wooden barque—heavily ballasted and towed by a paddle‑tug—loomed up in front of the windows. All the crew at the front were busy mounting the headgear, while a woman in a red hood—alone with the helmsman—trudged back and forth along the poop deck, grey wool knitting in her hands. German I should think," muttered one. " "One of us remarked, 'The skipper has his wife on board,' while the crimson sunset behind the London smoke threw a Bengal‑lit glow over the barque's spars, fading away from the Hope Reach." Then, a man over fifty who had not yet spoken and who had commanded ships for a quarter‑of‑a‑century, watched the barque glide away, its black hull streaking across the river’s sheen, and said, “This reminds me of an absurd episode from many years ago, when I first took command of an iron barque in a certain eastern seaport.” It was also the capital of an Eastern kingdom, situated upriver in the same way London is positioned on our ancient Thames. No further description of the location is required; after all, chances like this could unfold anywhere that ships, captains, tugboats, and orphaned nieces of indescribable splendor abound. Only I, my rival Falk, and my friend Hermann are involved in the absurdity of that episode. The phrase “My friend Hermann” seemed oddly emphasized, prompting one of us—after our talk of marine heroism—to remark, lightly and nonchalantly, “Was Hermann really a hero?” Not at all, said our grizzled friend. No hero at all. He was a Schiff-fuhrer: Ship-conductor. That's how they call a Master Mariner in Germany. I prefer our way. The alliteration is pleasing, and the titles confer upon us—a unified body—a sense of corporate identity: Apprentice, Mate, Master, within the ancient and honourable craft of the sea. As for my friend Hermann, he might well have been an exemplary sea‑master, yet officially he was known as Schiff‑führer and appeared the dignified, sturdy type of a prosperous farmer, tempered by the shrewd, good‑natured charm of a small shopkeeper. With a shaven chin, rounded limbs, and heavy eyelids, he bore no mark of a hard‑working labourer, much less the face of a seasoned sea‑adventurer. Yet he labored at sea in his own way, just as a shopkeeper would work behind his counter. His ship served as the livelihood that kept his growing family fed. She was a hefty, robust, blunt‑bowed craft that stirred thoughts of primitive strength, like the wooden plough of our forefathers. Furthermore, her design incorporated additional touches that underscored her rustic, home‑like appeal. The extraordinary timber projections, unique to this vessel, made her square stern resemble the tail end of a miller's wagon. The cabin’s four stern windows—each fitted with six tiny green‑tinged panes in brown‑painted wooden frames—could easily have been the shutters of a country cottage. The modest white curtains, together with the lush greenery of flower pots tucked behind the glass, finished the resemblance. While passing beneath the stern, I once spotted a round arm tilting a watering pot from my boat, and saw a young woman whose poised, sleek head I would always refer to as Hermann’s niece—though I’ve never actually heard her name despite my intimacy with the family. This, however, sprang up later on. Meanwhile, just as the other vessels of that eastern port, I was assured of Hermann’s strict standards for hygienic clothing. Evidently he believed in wearing good stout flannel next his skin. On most days, small frocks and pinafores hung to dry in the mizzen rigging, while a few socks fluttered on the signal halyards, but every fortnight the ship would be covered with family laundry in a striking, vigorous display. It covered the poop entirely. The afternoon breeze would rouse the densely packed garments into a strange, limp fluttering, whispering vague echoes of drowned, mutilated, and flattened humanity. Trunks that lacked heads waved like hands without fingers; legs that lacked feet kicked with sudden, fan‑like flair; and long white garments, billowing in the wind through lace‑trimmed necklines, swelled sharply—as if some invisible, heavy mass had rushed through them. On those days the ship could be seen from afar, its identity unmistakable amid the riot of multicoloured chaos unfolding abaft her mizzenmast. She stood beside me, her bow forward, christened Diana—though not the goddess of the Ephesus hills, but a stout Bremen‑built barque. Below the cottage windows on the stern, a foot‑long white sign, set in wide lettering reminiscent of a shop sign, proclaiming the vessel’s name. The absurd, ill‑suited name struck one as an affront to the memory of the most charming goddess, for the aging vessel was not only physically incapable of any chase but also carried a brood of four children. They peered over the rail at passing boats, occasionally tossing various objects into them. Before I caught a word from Hermann, I found on my hat a foul rag‑doll that had been his eldest daughter’s. However, these youngsters were upon the whole well behaved. They had fair heads, round eyes, round little knobby noses, and they resembled their father a good deal. | Charlie's face had flushed to the temples at a tone and command so unusual and so humiliating. ' “Oh, mamma!” Ernestine pleaded, reaching out in vain for her mother’s hand as she said, “spare me and pardon him!” Him? Who!' ' Carl.' ' You already call him Carl—right in front of me! This intruder, who—although garbed in the king’s uniform—merely resembles a lowly tradesman’s apprentice. Charlie’s face went colorless at the insult, yet he held back his mounting fury for Ernestine’s sake, who, with a pitiful voice, begged, “Dear mother, I urge you not to speak to Heinrich in such an harsh tone.” It is inhospitable! It is rude! It is cruel!' She added, tears streaming down her face in a torrent. You are no longer in a position to decide whether such conduct is rude, proper, or improper toward one who has breached our hospitality. Oh, Herr Pierrepont—I could scarcely have imagined any of this. Unless the old lady had been as blind as a mole, she might well have foreseen it. "You are aware of my views on this matter, and I am certain the Count will share them entirely," the old lady remarked, her voice dripping with hauteur. You also know the measures we expect you to take as quickly as possible. She offered a brief, haughty, half‑contemptuous bow, grabbed her daughter’s hand, and, denying her even a single farewell glance, led her away. Charlie stood frozen for a moment, as if the earth had taken root beneath him. He quietly snuffed out the lamp, clutching his taper, and climbed the long, gaunt staircase to his room. There, his heart wavered between love and sorrow, rage and mortification at the insolent affront of the old German woman, he sat for a while, refusing to undress. If she were not Ernestine’s mother, he would have hurled a few biting insults at her. He suddenly set about packing his portmanteau. His heart clung to a single, burning wish—to escape Frankenburg entirely—though the cage that held his beloved clung to him as tightly. It felt as though his longing had already been answered, as the resonant toll of the great clock rung at noon. He thought, “It’s Heinrich—come in!” The visitor was not Heinrich but the old family butler, who entered with a low bow, looking very sleepy, irritable, and surprisingly surprised. The Herr Graf offered his compliments to the Herr Lieutenant. When would he need the carriage to take him to Aachen? He referred to it as Aachen. Now!' ' Now, at this hour, my lord? Again, I thank you immediately; you may go. The old butler, who had served the Frankenburg family from the years just after Waterloo and Ligny, had attended Marshal Blucher on a visit and had made the fortunes and honours of the castle’s denizens his own—just as hereditary retainers of the Caleb Baldrestone kind often do even in this age of iron. He opened his grey eyes wide at the fierce energy and order of Charlie Pierrepont, then vanished at once to rouse the grooms and obey. Finally, he was politely escorted out of the house—though it was as if his mere presence had sullied her home. He remembered the Pierrepont family arms—a sable rampant lion flanked by two wings, sprinkled with mullets and bearing the motto “Pie repone te”—though he had never given heraldry much importance, and his anger flared, refusing to subside until he realized that departure was at hand. Why did Heinrich fail to appear? For better or for worse? Had he likewise been informed, and, in the manner of his father, taken to a high horse? It seemed so. At last, the carriage was officially announced. As Charlie made his way down, the silver‑haired butler reappeared, holding a tray that held a decanter and a glass, and said, “The Herr Graf requests that you, mein Herr, have a little glass of cognac before departing the Schloss; the night is cold.” Declining the final gesture of old German hospitality would have seemed impolite and would have drawn whispers among the servants; so, with the name of the one he loved on his lips, Charlie tipped a small glass of cognac to the cup and stepped into the carriage. "Aachen," the butler pronounced to the driver as he shut the door, bowing and adding, “Gute Nacht—leben Sie wohl, mein Herr.” And Charlie, in his mind, vowed to turn his back on Frankenburg forever. Ernestine was, if not more, as indispensable to Count Ulrich as any sole daughter could be. He was selfish enough to regard any low‑born youth with stern, black disdain; imagine how much more he would have harbored fury toward an impecunious soldier of fortune—a sub. He was, like Charlie Pierrepont, a member of the Thuringians. All was finished between the Frankenburgs and me, he thought as the carriage disappeared into the night; but once the war was over, if I could escape it, I would take her away at any risk—by Heaven, I shall. Despite his military habit of adapting to new quarters, billets, camps, and barracks, Charlie felt most at home in his father’s old German castle—his personal sanctuary where Ernestine was the idol—but now he had been banished from it. CHARLIE'S VISITOR. The carriage delivered Charlie Pierrepont to a hotel in Aachen, where he intended to stay briefly to see Ernestine again, to discuss their future correspondence, and then return to the Thuringians. The dawn broke over the city, the Rhine glinting in the light, heralding the day the Baron Grünthal would return to Frankenburg to finalize the last arrangements. What might those memories have become? At five o'clock, the great bell of the Dom Kirche rang out. Five hours had passed since she lay in his arms with her head on his breast; how far it seemed from then, and what a storm of alarm, bitterness, and mortification had raged in his heart since that moment! The bell of the Dom Kirche instantly recalled to him that day in the stairs of Hoch Münster, when the light pressure of her little hand—though barely felt—almost drove him over the edge of joy and prompted him to reveal the great secret of his heart. So their secret smiles and tender daily encounters had ended, and the whimsical tales she once shared with him on their rides—of sprites, elves, and enchanted knights—would never again echo in their world. It is highly probable that their paths on earth will remain forever apart. The past, present, and future sat apart like islands, and between the present and the future a widening chasm seemed to gape; all Charlie could do was clasp his hands and wistfully hope that in some way Heinrich had never brought him to Frankenburg. Ah, those lovely eyes that shifted from dreamy tenderness to mischievous sparkle to soft, unspoken love; the rose‑bud lips, so firm and delicately cut; the skin, smooth as satin; the velvet‑soft hands; the pink‑tinted cheeks, the winning ways, and the quaint sayings of Ernestine—could all of them, indeed, have become mere memories to him? It was intolerable! They would be nothing more than airy sketches. To Pierrepont, it felt as though every spark of brightness had drained from his world, as if half his life had evaporated. Could time ever heal this, or must only war or death hold the answer? God alone knew! Grief at the loss he had suffered, coupled with his dread of the agony she must feel—separated from him and threatened by a cruel marriage—nearly made him weep, but a spark of wrath and indignation at the imperious Countess’s treatment held back his tears. He had been curtly evicted from the house. That was precisely what the abrupt end of his visit had come to mean. Charlie felt that his epaulettes had been insulted, and his native English pride revolted at the idea. | 0.4 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Conrad, Joseph | Grant, James | 493 | 68789 | Conrad, Joseph_[The Sicilian Bandit From the Volume 'Captain Paul']_1500_1_0.7 | Grant, James_[The dead tryst]_1500_11_0.8 |
It'll do him good. " However, when he mentioned that he wouldn’t have to pay, she realized that he still had to pay. How'll you manage," she said now, "about the children? I can take them for a week or two or more while you get settled. " " Would you?" It was a way out for the present. " I'd take them altogether—I'd love to, Ranny—if it wasn't for your Father bein' ill." In spite of the cataclysm, she still by sheer force of habit kept it up. " I don't want you to take them altogether," he said. " I could do it—if you were to come with them—" That was what she wanted, the heavenly possibility she had seen from the very first. But she had hardly dared to suggest it. Even now, putting out her tremorous feeler, she shrank back from his refusal. " If you could let Granville—and come and live with us. " His silence and his embarrassment pierced her to the heart. " Won't you?" she ventured. " Well—I've got to think of them. For them, in some ways, the poor old Humming-bird might, you see, be almost as bad as Virelet. " She knew. She had known it all the time. She had even come to realize, to some extent, that Ranny’s father had partly been responsible for Ranny’s marriage. Had Ranny enjoyed a fuller, freer, and happier life at home, he would not have been driven to Violet. Well, dear, you just think it over. If you don't come you must get somebody. " Yes. He must get somebody. He had thought of that. " It can't be Winny Dymond, dear. " " No," he assented. " It can't be Winny Dymond. " " And you'll have to come to me until I can find you some one. " They left it so. After all, it made things easier: the method his mother had perfected—skating swiftly over brittle surfaces, circumnavigating profound unpleasantness, and, when she did plunge, only into vague voids. Through it all, he sensed the brittleness, the unpleasantness, and the profound weight of the situation before him; he pondered how to handle poor Winny and her innocent enormity, and he recognized the impropriety with which her devotion had been presented to him. Even that painful dilemma slipped from his mind, overtaken by the stark, practical task of separating Winny from the children—essentially, pulling Baby then Dossie from her in a cruel, piecemeal fashion. It was a spectacle—an operation of such stark agony that even the most steadfast, blemish‑free sense of propriety collapsed in its wake. It was too much altogether for Mrs. Ransome. Dossie was the worst. She had strength in her little fingers, and she clung. And the two’s cries—terrible to both Ranny and Winny—rose in a storm of passionate screams, strangled sobs, long, irremediable wailing, and convulsive silences, as if their innocence had glimpsed the monstrous, imminent separation and the wrong they were about to inflict upon one another, all in the name of a sanctity that innocence could not comprehend. In outrage and injustice it tugged at their sacred primal instincts, drawing them—as it had long ago—into a desire to bind them again, body and soul, breaking every other bond; it insulted and violently struck at honest love, fatherhood, motherhood, and at the one—indeed, the triple—perfection they could aspire to—for both him and her. It ended in the sheer terror of Winny staying only that evening, intended to lull the little ones to sleep. For nobody else, not Ranny, and not his mother, was able to do that. Their torturers’ sinister scheme was to take the innocent ones by night, drugged in sleep, snugly bundle them in a pram, and quietly convey them to Wandsworth, where it was hoped the poor lambs would awaken to a morning of no memory. Well—Winky," he said. But it was not yet well. He had to stand there and watch Winky bend over Baby’s cot—her right to do so—for that final look. She knew it was her last look, in that room—in that way that had been the way of innocence. " Well, I never!" said Ranny's mother, as he returned from seeing Winky home. ( So much was permitted him. It was even imperative.) " Did they ever cry like that for their Mammy?" He smiled grimly. His illumination was more than he could bear. In that brutal, sudden tearing of the children from Winny, of Winny from Ransome, and of Ransome from his own home—a hurried, furtive flight into darkness—he felt poverty’s crushing and malevolent pinch most keenly. Given his limited means, even with his mother’s careful planning and goodwill and the collective ingenuity at hand, they had no better option to address his lamentable situation than this. This," indeed, was imperative, inevitable. He bitterly mused that if, instead of being a ledger clerk earning only a hundred and fifty a year, he had been a rich man like Woolridge’s manager or secretary, he would have been spared this ordeal. It would have been neither inevitable nor imperative. It simply wouldn't have happened. He would have owned a house staffed with competent servants—a nurse for the children, a cook, perhaps a housemaid to tend to him, and other such roles. Winny wouldn't have come into it. It would never have occurred to her to run the risks she had run for him. There would have been no need. She would have remained, serene, beautiful in sympathy, outside his calamity, untouched by its sordidness, its taint. All of his household’s machineries would have kept running without a hitch or disruption, working even more smoothly in her absence. Rich people left these situations upright and smiling, confident that nothing could spoil their peace or turn it into anything but a blessing. Thus they got, as you may say, the whole good out of it without any waste. When they were displeased, the affluent—prompted to flee—exited the scene of their disaster by cab, maintaining their dignity. But Ranny's departure, with all its ignominy, was not by any means the worst. The worst, incomparably, was the going back on Monday evening to settle up. A man arrived from Wandsworth, pushing a handcart that held the cots, the high chair, all the babies’ furniture, their tiny clothes and toys—a complete miniature outfit—along with everything he personally needed. And when all the packing was done he would still have to go into things. By the things he had to go into he meant the drawers and the cupboards in his wife's room. And such things! It seemed as though the entire story of her affair—laden with secret scandal, squalor, and utter callousness—emanated from that room of tangled love‑knots and tender rosebuds. In the locked wardrobe, where the key lay on the chimney‑piece, he found her old skirts—ragged, torn, and stained as he had always known them—the muslin gown from last year, loathsome and limp, bent like a hanged corpse, and her nightgown from the night before, dreadfully familiar, shrinking, the poor ghost of an abomination tucked in a corner. Under them, arranged in a line, lay the shoes that her feet had slipped into—misshapen, worn at the heels, gaping to expose her shame. These things Winny had collected and put away in order, and hidden out of his sight as best she could. Having realized their story, she hung a sheet over them, locked the door, and set the key aside, hoping to lessen the shock. For they were things that had been good enough for him, but not good enough for Violet's lover. She had gone to him in all her bravery, leaving them behind, not caring who found them. | Her perception had fastened upon it from the first and measured its value. Now, amidst the ruins of the Priory, she turned the situation to her advantage. She had honed it, and found it to be a tower of strength. She said, “I know what happened.” You kept it hidden, Jordan, the way a man of your kind would, yet he confessed how he threw you into the water—what a cruel devil. I'm sorry he told you—I asked him not to. He wanted me to see what he could do, and he would repeat it again—and in time he would do it again. He now truly despises me, and soon I will have to flee in terror for my own life—something I know all too well. I don't think much of my own life, yet living with a tiger feels utterly terrible. Is that really what you mean, Medora? I do then. He's far more different from who he used to be, or from what anyone thinks. He may feign composure at work, but his temper is that of a devil; at times I wish he’d strike me down, and at other moments—being too young to contemplate my own demise—I imagine running into the world and taking a chance. The world would be kinder to him than he was, and it could not have been any crueler. “This is terrifying—infinitely terrifying,” he exclaimed. I can’t stand hearing you say those things, Medora. "I wouldn't do that if it weren't true." It can't go on. I hate to trouble you, but nobody in the world cares what happens to me except you. I suppose I am being punished for my past. I deserve it. I took on that cruel tyrant in place of you—so don’t listen to me. I'm mad to-day." She broke into convulsive sobbing, tears streaming down her face as she wept, while he stared helplessly at the world. His mind moved. He could not tolerate her persistent anguish, and the confession together with the warning of danger spurred a resolve for action within him. Something must be done. She was now in unmistakable peril. A day could bring the terrible news of a catastrophe that cannot be undone. Every newspaper contained such stuff. He never once doubted the gravity of the situation. He despised the thought that Medora would have to return home and share a roof with her husband. In his rational mind the situation seemed utterly grave, for no hint of the true Medora tinted his impression and he remained ignorant of the true Ned. He placed complete trust in the woman and truly loved her. He now firmly believed that the life he treasured most was caught in torment and peril. Under the crushing weight of emotion, she had repeatedly expressed regret over the fatal step she had taken in the past. She had openly lamented choosing Dingle, knowing she could have married Kellock instead. Here lay a daunting problem, urgent and pressing enough to snap the young man out of his usual calm and deliberative state in confronting life's demands. At that instant all his long‑term ambitions vanished; he was driven solely by the immediate urgency to decide how best to help Medora. Boundless prospects unfurled before him—acts of chivalry and daring, unconventional feats that called for great effort and a dismissal of ordinary social norms. He was ready to wage war on society for the sake of his class, should the occasion demand it. He intended to stand beside the labor leaders and fight for socialism. He anticipated the upcoming battle and was preparing himself through study and training. Although the great revolt still sat on the horizon of his ambitions, a pressing personal appeal confronted him now—a matter that touched his own well‑being and future. Above all, he felt that Medora’s future now hung in the balance. Her destiny rested on him. He chose not to share the outcome of his musings with Medora. In that instant, he urged her to keep her spirits high and trust in him. As she wept, he weighed his words and, sensing the moment was right, offered her comfort. I’m glad you’ve shared all of this with me," he said. It reveals exactly where you should place your faith. Since you bring this to me, Medora, I will take it upon myself to handle it. I am only a human, yet I have loved you with all my heart—a love that endures—and now the circumstances have shifted. I never imagined I’d think of you again—at least not in that way—if your marriage had gone well; but seeing it now fall apart, it’s up to me to reenter your life. May I do so?" " "You’re the only thing that matters to me," she whispered, wiping away her tears. Everything else pushes me toward ending it—yes, Jordan, I've often thought about that. I’ll gladly hand myself over to you and remain patient a little longer, if you wish. "It's not a case for waiting," he said. It's a case for doing. I don’t know what fear feels like for myself, and you’ve endured even more until he changed that. It appears to me that you must come to me, Medora. Oh, my God—could you?" " Yes, I can, and I will. Think of yourself—it's like your bravery to put me first; I would become your devoted servant, live for you, and thank Heaven for its blessings, yet I don’t want to ruin your life, you good, brave man. “No one can wreck your life except you,” he said, “and if I rescue you, it wouldn’t mean sacrificing my own.” If that’s how you’d like it, leave the rest to me. I mean it, Medora. " A dream that had long occupied her waking mind suddenly appeared about to come true, and for an instant she was frightened. But only for a moment. She hardly hesitated. Here bloomed romance, fame, and the very pulse of the stage—everything. She knew she could trust him, and if she had ever loved the impassive vatman, she was doing so right then and there. She took his hand, pressed her lips to it, and felt her heart race. Like it!" she cried. " He would, indeed, have found a slice of paradise on earth. And God is my judge; you shall not repent. I will live for you and would willing give my life for you. So be it, Medora. It's done. " He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. Then both harbored a private longing to be alone and weigh the gravity of the decision. He voiced this wish. " He said, “We must part now.” You’ll go to your mother’s place, and I’ll head home. Keep your mind light, stay cheerful, and remain content. Leave the rest to me. After I’ve gone through all of it, I’ll write to you tonight. It isn’t as hard as it seems if we properly support one another. Tomorrow I'll make sure you retrieve the letter without anyone at the works seeing you. Be near the vat house around 11:30. Remember, you have a man you must deal with. She replied earnestly, “God bless you.” I’m yours now, and you will never, ever regret that, Jordan. You can trust me as much as I trust you in everything. They traced the winding stair of the ruin down, then made a discreet parting of ways. Medora walked through the orchard toward her mother’s home at Priory Farm, while Kellock, slipping over the hedge, turned to Dene and strolled down Corkscrew Lane, his thoughts already fixed on what lay ahead. He realized that his thoughts kept drifting from Medora toward her husband. After telling her she had a man to deal with, the realization settled on Kellock as well—that he too had a man to confront. Meanwhile, as Ned’s wife arrived at the farm, she paused before stepping forward to let her eyes linger on a quiet little stream that ran beneath the orchard hedge. She looked unusually content, and Lydia was glad to see her. Philander Knox, another guest invited by Mrs. Trivett, arrived at Priory Farm. A friendship had sprung up between him and the widow, for modest though Lydia might be, she could not fail to perceive her company was agreeable to Mr. Knox. | 0.3 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Sinclair, Mary Amelia St. Clair | Phillpotts, Eden | 28461 | 55468 | Sinclair, Mary Amelia St. Clair_[The Combined Maze]_1500_50_0.3 | Phillpotts, Eden_[Where There's Hope]_1500_18_0.8 |
" The landlord, who had heard tell of the nine florins and thought that they were safe in the blind men's purse, asked them what they would like for their dinner. Then they all began to talk at once at the top of their voices: "Bacon and peas, hotchpotch of beef and veal, chicken and lamb! And where are the sausages—were they made for the dogs, pray? And who is he that has smelt out the black and white puddings in the passage without collaring them for us? I used to be able to see them, alas, in the days when my poor eyes were bright as candles! And where is the buttered koekebakken of Anderlecht? Sizzling in the frying-pan, juicy and crackling, enough to make a fish thirsty for drink! Ho there! But who will bring me eggs and ham, or ham and eggs, twin friends of my palate? And where are you, you choesels, adrift in a heavenly stew of meats and kidneys, coxcombs, sweetbreads, oxtails, lamb’s feet, together with many onions, pepper, cloves, and nutmegs—everything simmering together—and bearing at least three pints of the best white wine as sauce? And who will bring you to me divine, chitterlings, you that are so good that one does not utter a word while you are being swallowed! And they come straight from Luyleckerland, a land bursting with fatness and filled with happy lazy folk, whose passion for good things to eat is never assuaged! And where are you, dried leaves of autumns past? Now quick there! Bring me a leg of mutton with broad beans. And for me, some pig's ears grilled with bread-crumbs. And for me, a chaplet of ortolans. Verily the snipe shall figure the Paters, and a fat capon the Credo. " Mine host answered quietly: "I will bring you an omelette made with sixty eggs. To furnish the spoons with signposts, I shall scatter fifty black puddings amid a steaming mountain of merry cheer, while a stream of dobbel peterman drips from its summit like a river all around. At that moment the mouths of the poor blind men began to water, and they cried out: “Please serve us swiftly, with the mountain, the sign‑posts, and the river!” The Breath… no, sorry:
> The Brethren of the Jolly Face, now all seated around the table with their wives, told Ulenspiegel that the occasion should be dubbed the Day of the Invisible Feast, for the blind men could not see what they ate and were thus deprived of half their pleasure. At last the omelette arrived—topped with cress and parsley, carried by my host himself and four of his cooks—and the blind men, eager to feast, rushed to it. But mine host was determined to serve each of them fairly, and, however difficult it might be, to make sure that each trencher had its just portion. The women archers were filled with pity to see the blind men gobbling and sighing with joy at what was set before them. For in truth they were half starved, and they swallowed down the puddings as though they had been oysters. And the dobbel peterman flowed into their stomachs as if it had been a cataract falling down from some lofty mountain. When at length they had cleared their trenchers, they demanded yet further supplies of koekebakken, ortolans, and fricassees. Mine host, however, only provided a great platter of beef and veal and mutton bones, all swimming in a most goodly sauce. But he did not divide it properly. When they had fully dipped their bread in sauce and lifted their hands to their elbows, each drew only bone, leading them to believe their neighbour seized all the meat and sparking a fierce fight in which men hurled bone‑filled blows at one another. The Brethren of the Jolly Face laughed heartily at this, but being charitably disposed, each put a portion of his own dinner into the blind men's platter. So whenever a blind man sought a fresh bone to keep the quarrel going, he would thrust his hand at a thrush, a chicken, or a lark or two; meanwhile, the women, with their heads tilted backward, kept pouring long draughts of Brussels wine into his mouth, and when he reached out—blind men do as they do—to find the source of the ambrosial stream, he would often snag a woman’s skirt and try to hold it fast. But quickly the skirt would make its escape. Thus they laughed and drank, ate and sang, enjoying themselves hugely. Some of them, when they found that women were present, ran through the hall all maddened with amorous desire. But the malicious girls kept out of their way, hiding behind the Brethren of the Jolly Face. And one of them would say: "Come, kiss me!" When the blind man tried to kiss a woman, he found himself pressing his lips against the bearded face of a man, who in turn slapped him across the cheek. And the Brethren of the Jolly Face began to sing, and the blind men sang also, and the merry women smiled with fond delight to see their pleasure. But when the juicy hours were past, it was the turn of the innkeeper, who came forward, saying: "Now you have eaten your fill, my friends, and drunk your fill. You owe me seven florins. " But each of the blind men swore that he had no purse, and asserted that it was one of the others who carried it. A new quarrel erupted; the men threw themselves at one another with feet, hands, and heads, most of the blows missing their targets and landing aimlessly. The members of the Jolly Face, amused, kept the group apart so that the strikes fell into empty air — except for one unlucky hit that struck the innkeeper's face, which enraged him into ransacking all their pockets. But he found there nothing but an old scapular, seven liards, three breeches-buttons, and a few rosaries. Finally, he threatened to hurl all of them into the pig trough, leaving them there with only bread and water to eat until they repaid what they owed. Let me go surety for them," said Ulenspiegel. " Certainly," answered the innkeeper, "if some one will also go surety for you. " This the Brethren of the Jolly Face at once offered to do, but Ulenspiegel refused them. " No," he said, "the Dean of Uccle shall be my surety. I will go and find him. " To be sure it was those Masses for the dead that he was thinking of. After he located the Dean, he spun a tale of how the Trumpet Inn’s landlord had been possessed by the Devil, canny only to speak of “pigs” and “blind men,” and how the pigs devoured the blind while the blind ate the pigs in a succession of dreadful roasts and fricascés. While the attacks raged, the innkeeper—, as Ulenspiegel insisted—tore up all the furniture in the inn and pleaded with the Dean to rescue the poor man from the wicked devil that possessed him. The Dean promised to do so, but he said he could not come at the moment something out of them for himself). Noticing the Dean’s growing impatience, Ulenspiegel promised to return with the innkeeper’s wife so the Dean could speak to her directly. Very well," said the Dean. So Ulenspiegel came again to the innkeeper and said to him: "I have just seen the Dean, and he is willing to go surety for the blind men. Do you keep watch over them, and let your wife come with me, and the Dean will repeat to her what I have just told you. " " Go, wife," said the innkeeper. So the innkeeper's wife went with Ulenspiegel to the Dean, who was still at his accounts and busy with the same problem. When, therefore, he saw Ulenspiegel and the woman, he made an impatient gesture that they should withdraw, saying at the same time: "It is all right. I will come to the help of your husband in a day or two. " And Ulenspiegel went back to the inn and said to himself: "Seven florins shall he pay; seven florins. | "What do you want me to do," he asked; "go down to Lotzen's palace and stick my sword through him?" " It’s unfortunate that you may not understand, but if he could, he would do exactly what he would to you—yet that is not our way; we consider ourselves civilized, at least to a certain extent. You should take every precaution against him; and when justified, kill him as readily as he would kill you. The Archduke sat silently, a cigar wedged between his teeth, smoke curling in a fine strip across his face as he fixed his gaze on the desk before him. "Of course, my boy," Courtney said after a brief pause, "I assume you’re playing for the entire game—and for victory." If you’re not, the whole matter can be easily adjusted—renounce the Crown, marry the Princess … and live somewhere beyond the borders of Valeria—come back to America, indeed; I’ll see that you once again receive your commission in the Engineers. Courtney sensed his thoughts and pressed onward to uncover the intention. But if you’re determined to win—and that duty to your friends must guide you—your foremost obligation is to survive; a dead archduke serves no purpose in the royal affairs we’re facing. You could head straight for Glory, but that would do nothing for the poor devils you leave behind in Lotzen’s clutches—those who have remained faithful to you and never doubted your loyalty. Your life now belongs to them, and you have no right to waste it in foolish, obstinate recklessness. I’ve spoken my mind frankly, and I promise never to bother you again. After all, the decision rests with you, not with a meddling friend. The Archduke smiled. " To prove that the friend is not meddling, I will heed his advice—even though I recognize that this urgent situation demands that prudence yield to boldness. Prudence may sound wise in theory, but it endangers our success more than recklessness does. I am playing for a Crown and a Nation’s favor—if even a moment’s doubt strikes my personal courage, the game is lost as surely as if I were dead. Regarding my dear cousin Lotzen, I assure you I harbor no hesitation at all when it comes to killing him at the proper opportunity. In fact, I find myself wanting to relish it instead. I now admit that there have been moments when I regretted not having run him through at the Vierle Masque. Courtney nodded. " It would have saved you all this trouble—I wanted to call you to put an end to him. I cannot commit murder—I've already disarmed him. Next time, I’ll choose a different play. If the Duke makes his choice, there will be no next time. He does not seek death, yet he acknowledges you as his master. You'll have to kill them in a melee or maneuver them into a position where they have no choice but to fight. He is positioning himself so that he will be forced to face a blade far more formidable than mine. Courtney's eye-brows lifted expressively. In the kingdom, there was only one swordsman better than the Archduke himself. What has Lotzen been doing to Moore?" he asked. " Insulting Elise d'Essoldé. " " By making advances?" Armand nodded. " And in a particularly nasty way." " "He is unconcerned with Moore," said Courtney. He assumes he is immune to anyone outside his own station. He is oblivious to the Irishman—Moore would kill him without a second thought. I'm not so sure," said Courtney. " Moore has been raised to honor the royals, so he would only draw his sword against a member of the Blood in defense. Lotzen would be wise not to rely too heavily on that for immunity if he pursues d’Essoldé. Well, that’s even better; between us it’s clear the trick must be flipped, though in the abstract sense of justice it’s ultimately your task. “I won’t back down,” Armand said with a laugh, “overall I’m a bit of a savage myself; it seems Lotzen hasn’t brought that same ferocity into the family. ” Courtney shrugged his shoulders. " We are all fundamentally savage—the difference lies only in how thick our veneer becomes. Of its thinness, I should say. Now that you’ve saved my life and placed trust in me for both vigilance and decisive action against my foes, we can get down to business. You had something you wanted to share with me. I have told you," said Courtney. " I wanted to show you that note, to save your precious life. The Archduke lifted the paper and read it once more. Maybe the party that wrote this can help answer the question I came to ask: What brought Lotzen to the Summer Palace this afternoon, and, in particular, why did he go into the King's library? Courtney struck a fresh cigarette and watched the ember curl into ash. Doesn't your second question answer the first? he asked. " Doubtless; but what's the answer to the second?" Courtney shook his head. " I’ll pass, unless you can give me more details. Here's everything I know," said Armand. " Moore, serving as the Regent’s adjutant, occupies a portion of the king’s private suite as his quarters. Earlier that afternoon, he slipped out, leaving the library’s corridor door wide open. Later, Mademoiselle d'Essoldé saw Lotzen emerging from the library; he then met Moore and casually told him that, as he passed Moore’s open quarters, he had taken the liberty of looking at His late Majesty’s portrait and wished to have it copied. Courtney considered a bit. " "With a measured tone, he remarked, 'It’s genuinely fascinating to dissect your cousin’s methods.'" He seems to relish telling people the truths he knows they will dismiss. It was utterly absurd to offer such a naive explanation, especially if he truly wanted to clarify—and nobody knows this better than Lotzen. It appeared as though he had told Moore, “Inform Archduke Armand that I have been in the library, I have achieved my purpose, and the devil may take my compliments.” "That’s a solid explanation of Lotzen’s methods," Armand agreed, "but what I’m really after is his motive—what exactly was he trying to achieve?" The Book of Laws, possibly," Courtney replied. " Nonsense—he knows it’s not in the library; if it had been, I would have had it days ago. How can he tell that you don’t have it? How! Because I would have produced it to prove my title. Courtney smiled. " You would certainly act if it proved your title—but what if it didn’t? You overlook Frederick's decree. " " No, I don’t—you ignore the fact that no one has ever seen that decree, and that Lotzen is free to assume it was never enacted. The whole story is fabricated, and you stole the Book to throw the election into the House of Nobles in order to gain a chance at the Crown, even though you truly have no right to it. Armand said, “Lotzen fully grasps that Dehra told the truth, and that I have no book—I'm almost ready to accept her claim that he does.” Courtney reclined in his chair, watching the smoke rings curl and spiral skyward. I can’t concur with you; after his visit to the library, I’m more convinced than ever that he doesn’t possess the Book. He feigns having it to deceive you in your search. "More likely," said Armand, "from his perspective, he's luring me into a trap so he can finish me off." “After a moment of reflection, Courtney said, ‘I believe you’ve guessed it—and more importantly, it’s the key to Lotzen’s campaign strategy, conclusively proving his intent to kill.’” I'd be very shy of information that points Book-ward, unless you know the informant; above everything, don't be fooled by the device of a rendezvous, or a tattling servant. | 0.2 | Adventure stories | Coster, Charles Theodore Henri de | Scott, John Reed | 37599 | 40034 | Coster, Charles Theodore Henri de_[Légende d'Ulenspiegel. English]_1500_12_0.2 | Scott, John Reed_[The Princess Dehra]_1500_22_0.7 |
" "What kind of choice?" " Come with me to the stars, or stay in some prison and rot. Hobson's choice. " " Think and be damned, then," said Tiny. The Amazon guided a drink to her lips, then, with deliberate care, shattered the final flask of mushroom beer against a rock. The lighter was ready. Wilding led his picked crew of twenty cut-throats aboard. He was not especially surprised to find the control cabin occupied. Tichron settled comfortably in the pilot’s seat, his blaster aimed steady at Amyth, who had curled up like a sulky cat in the navigator’s chair. I go, or the girl doesn't," said Tichron. Wilding laughed at him. " You're a little previous. This is just a dry run. We're seizing the supply ship and coming back for the rest. " " So I've heard. Well, I'm going with you to make sure that you do come back. " " Amyth is not going this trip. None of the women. So you might hold your gun on me and let the girl get outside. Time is of the essence—we must intercept the supply ship well before it sights the beacon. Tichron obliged by shifting his aim to Wilding. Amyth slipped silently through the airlock and dropped to the ground. " Shall I take him now?" Grouth asked, edging toward Tichron who seemed unembarrassed by two possible targets instead of one. " Don't move," ordered Wilding. To Tichron he said, "You can put the gun down now, or go on holding it. But your arm will be pretty numb by the time we hit the supply ship. " " Do I go with you?" demanded Tichron. " You're wasting melodrama, big boy. I wouldn't think of leaving you behind. Ask Concor, we were wondering what had happened to you. " " Concor could lie, and so could you," growled Tichron. But he carefully reclipped the gun to his belt. " Perhaps you'll be killed trying to take the supply ship. " " Perhaps you will...." Wilding barked orders. The lighter was closed up and sealed. Atom-converters purred with steady vibrations. With a grunt and heave, the lighter moved into the airlock shaft. Lights dimmed and the jarring increased in tempo. Movement steadied into a smooth glide. Automatic door-flaps opened ahead and closed behind. Blast-off ritual began. Suddenly the tiny ship shot from the surface like a cork from a bottle. Acceleration pangs became nagging nausea. Wilding licked his lips. " Perhaps we'll all be killed. It will spare us a great deal of trouble... Ships approach and pass each other at terrific relative velocities. Human senses are too sluggish to keep pace, and even a starship’s automatic controls can act only within the parameters they were pre‑set with. Surprise is almost as likely, because combat forces both ships to travel at roughly the same speed along nearly parallel courses. Though Wilding had planned carefully, he knew that there is a vast difference between plans and execution. Anything, or any number of things, could go wrong. For one thing, if it came to an actual running fight, his craft was practically unarmed. The supply ship was fitted with robotic brains that performed mass detection, computed targeting courses, and automatically aimed and launched atomic‑warhead torpedoes. There had been neither time nor material to build such complicated machines. Even the control of the lighter was accomplished manually. Moving out from the asteroid, the lighter described a wide curve. It came upon the supply ship from behind, striking a speed only slightly greater than that of its quarry. Rapidly overhauling the larger spacecraft, it sent no recognition signal and was prepared to answer none. The supply ship had already begun its tedious deceleration, preparing to sight the flare beacon and unload the stores destined for the prisoners on Asteroid 297. It was a dull, routine maneuver. Within the control bay, the pilot‑captain and astrogator hunched over chart‑screens, slipping command‑tapes into the electronic systems that ran the ship. Men may be careless and overconfident. Machines are not— Alarms whined and clamored. Red lights blinked on the control panels, reporting intrusion. Instruments went into automatic action to determine the sector and nature of possible menace. Data tapes spewed from the battery of electronic brains. Electric typewriters clattered like machine-guns. The strange object was man-made, too regular in form to be of meteoric origin. Metallic, but not a meteor. Its mirror-polished skin was analyzed spectroscopically and classified as an industrial alloy. Details of structure were noted and filed. Its high speed and the eerie glow trailing it made clear that the craft was powered by a secondary use of atomic energy. But the officers of the supply ship had scant time to digest this array of facts. With a burst of speed, the strange craft angled suddenly toward them. Distance closed rapidly, and collision seemed imminent. Alarms screamed in mechanical panic. Robot piloting devices operated instantaneously, attempted ticklish maneuvering to avoid contact. It was too late. The pilot-captain's brain was working almost as rapidly as the relays of his cybernetic helpers. But not as surely. For a desperate moment, he considered the possibility of piracy, but he rejected the thought at once. All known desperadoes had been hunted from the spaceways. And if communications were to be trusted, no other spaceship could be within many days run of his present position. Mentally, the officer reviewed Procedure Regulations, and wondered what space novelty he was encountering this time. He had little time to wonder, and less for indecision. Had he acted promptly, the heavy meteor‑shield tubes could have been repositioned away from the ship’s nose. Even the token armament of robot-aimed torpedo tubes could have been ordered into action. In the confusion of the moment, he took no action at all. There was shock. Although the strange ship had only brushed the hull plates, the crew’s brains and circulatory systems strained to adapt to the sudden shift in direction. Then the intruder was firmly alongside, secured by magnetic grapples, and the airlock doors swung open automatically as the pressures on both sides equalized. Men poured through the airlock. They were a desperate, savage crew from the prison lighter. Their weapons were crude but effective. The battle was brief, a momentary huddled violence, then officers and crew of the supply ship were overwhelmed. Oddly enough, casualties were few on either side. It is easier to unleash wolves than to restrain them once they have tasted blood. Wilding despised needless bloodshed, yet he quelled the vengeful fury of his brutal crew with the practiced hand of a true master. Did any message get through?" he asked Concor. The Martian shook his head unhappily. " Part of one. We tried to blanket their transmitter, but—" "That shortens our time. Don't harm our prisoners. We may need them for hostages. " Convicts went through the ship and routed out everyone in hiding. The captives were lined up and Wilding went down the line inspecting his catch. The crewmen were both angry and frightened. The officers blustered. One of the last captives, turned out of hiding in the crew's quarters, was a girl. She limped into the straggled line-up and faced the new masters of the ship. Wilding stared at her in astonishment. " Elshar!" he gasped. " What are you doing here?" The girl did not answer at once. She shrugged, smiling curiously. Racial strangeness was in the angles of her face-structure. Large, luminous eyes, of deep blue, rode high on tilted cheekbones. She looked very young, with her face still pale from shock. In her dark hair and fair skin were the curious blendings of mixed blood, which often produces rare beauty. Except for her twisted leg, she was the living embodiment of a tiny, exquisitely carved Martian‑ivory figurine—perfect in form yet unmistakably human. All too human. " I bought my freedom with the money you left for me," she explained slowly. " There was enough left to bribe the guards of the supply ship. " Caught between confusion and anger, Wilding stormed at her. " You must have lost your mind. What could you want—" The girl stopped him with a gesture. " Perhaps. And perhaps more than my mind. I convinced them that all I wanted was to see the place you had been taken. I did not try to convince myself. All the time I hoped something would happen. Some miracle. I ask nothing from you. Just let me stay near you—" Tichron's laugh was a knife-thrust in the heavy stillness of the ship. " Friend," he said enviously. " You have one woman too many. " " One is sometimes too many," Wilding said irritably. | He ran his hands all over the man's body. His clothing showed neither a bulging package nor any loose stones. He was dumfounded. He had never expected such a thorough examination. Carroll’s skull bore a bullet wound, undoubtedly the result of Lang’s last shot fired into the thicket. He must have stumbled a few yards farther on. He had either thrown the stones away or dropped them. One leg of the trousers was stiff with blood, too. It came from Lang’s first gunshot, and Carroll most likely stashed the jewels right after he was wounded. Lang scanned the ground, lifting the body to see if anything lay beneath it. The ground was thick with moss and ferns. That tiny silk parcel would be lost like a needle in straw. It could be anywhere within half a mile. Only Carroll alone could know what he had done with it. After casting wildly across several yards, he returned to examine Carroll’s wound for the first time. The bullet had pierced the skull almost above the ear—a relatively high entry point. It had not surfaced, yet Lang could feel it just beneath the skin near the opposite temple. It was not necessarily fatal. He had previously encountered such a case in his Boston clinic. He had performed the operation and succeeded. He sank beside the unconscious man, plunging into an intense study, and for a while the emeralds slipped from his thoughts. He recalled firing the twin signal‑shot, then slipped back into thought. "If only he had a trephine—a small drill that cuts a round piece out of bone! He heard Morrison hail from a distance, replied, and soon the explorer appeared, panting, clutching a cocked Winchester at the ready. His gaze instantly fell upon the prostrate figure. Dead?" he asked quickly. " Have you got the stones?" " The stones? Lang answered, “I simply don’t know where they’ve vanished to.” No, he isn't dead. He may have lost them—or hidden them somewhere—Lord knows only. Morrison cursed. His eyes roved wildly. " My God!" he exclaimed. " We've got to get them! Is he going to die? Could we not restore his composure with a potent stimulant, letting him speak before he succumbs? Surely it's possible?" It was precisely the opposite of the earlier incident aboard the Cavite, and despite the abstractions involved, Lang couldn’t help but chuckle for a moment. Morrison did not see the point. " Even if it kills him!" he insisted, reinforcing the analogy. " "It’s almost certain he hid the emeralds shortly after I struck him in the leg," Lang said. Look here! I'll show you what's happened. My bullet went through his skull. He's likely gone senseless from the shock, yet he regained consciousness and staggered a short distance. Perhaps he disposed of the stones then, and his gun too—yet I can’t see it. He slipped into unconsciousness again, though this time it wasn’t caused directly by the wound. A clot has formed on the cerebral surface at the bullet’s entry point, and it is this that is paralyzing him. He may survive the bullet wound. What, right through the brain?" ejaculated the explorer. " Oh, yes. It often happens. Do you happen to have any medical or surgical supplies on board? You wouldn't have a trephine, of course. Got a surgical saw? Any anæsthetics and disinfectants?" " "Six ounces of ether and a bottle of iodine," Morrison replied. I have forceps, scissors, sterilized cotton, and a very fine, sharp hack saw. What are you thinking of doing?" " "Lang resolved, 'I will operate.'" I'm going to remove that blood clot. He will almost certainly regain consciousness once the anesthesia wears off, and there’s a good chance he will recover. We can't take him aboard. It would kill him. I'll operate at my old camp. Help me lift him up over there, then return to the boat and bring your surgical kit, a razor, soap, clean towels, basins, and all the largest kettles you have for boiling water. Also bring Eva, Miss Morrison, along if she has the nerve. Both of you are required to help. They carried the patient as gently as possible to the camp, setting him down in a bark shelter just a short distance from the warmth. Lang fanned the flames while Morrison hurried off to fetch the necessary utensils. Eva returned with him, her pallor stark even as excitement flared across her features. Both of them carried blankets, towels, kettles of boiling water, and every improvised instrument that Morrison could reach. Lang understood exactly what she was thinking, yet his own professional crisis now felt remote and insignificant. He was not concerned with it. He knew exactly what he had to do and was utterly confident he could execute it. As the kettles of water reached a boil, Lang settled in and honed the edge of one of Morrison’s keen pen‑knives. He placed the instruments in the boiling water and timed them to secure a full twenty‑minute sterilization. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly, soaked them in iodine, and set the instruments before him. He said nothing, his expression entirely absorbed, yet his mind rang with an elation he’d not known in years. After the instruments were sterilized, he filled a basin with cool water, folded a towel into a cone, placed it over Carroll’s face, and applied the ether. He placed one hand on the patient’s pulse and, intermittently, lifted an eyelid to cautiously inspect the pupil. Carroll, weakened by blood loss, required careful treatment; however, his unconscious state accelerated the onset of anesthesia. Lang handed the bottle of ether to Morrison, instructing him to pour a little extra when the word was spoken. He smoothly rotated Carroll’s head to reveal the bullet’s position. With the razor he cut away a small, clean opening, slit a narrow strip of skin, and as he had expected the little blackened lead lump almost burst free. He cleaned the wound meticulously, pressed a wad of absorbent gauze over it, and secured it in place. So far all was easy and simple. The critical part was to come. He turned the patient’s head once more without hesitation, shaving and cleaning a roughly three‑inch area around the wound, which left a purplish mark on the white scalp. A little more ether was given. " Hand me the knife," he ordered. " Be ready with the saw. Don't touch anything. Hand them with the forceps. " He swiftly and deftly cut a semicircular incision around the bullet mark, then lifted the skin flap. Seizing the sharp little saw, he struck the skull with the most efficient cut he could devise. When the saw rasped and the first reddened flecks of bone brushed under its steel teeth, Eva streaked pale, yet she braced herself. Lang paid it no heed; from that instant his mind concentrated solely on the task at hand. Though his face stayed impassive and distant, triumph sang within him. His hands obeyed his will. He felt as if life had been breathed back into him, as if a long‑absent spirit had returned to serve him. He had to use the improvised instruments with extreme care. Fortunately, the wound lay on the skull’s most convex area, so a straight saw could be used to cut a clean hole. He first cut straight through the bone, then made a second incision at a right angle to it, followed by a third cut, and finally a fourth to complete the square. He gently loosened the small bone fragment with the forceps. It came out. There lay, as he had anticipated, a large, dark blood clot. He removed the clot partly with the forceps and partly with his fingers, then cleansed the exposed surface with meticulous care. He hesitated whether to reinsert the bone fragment. In a hospital, he would likely have opted for a silver plate. Replacing the fragment risked introducing infection, so I chose to avoid that danger. He lifted the skin flap and closed it with four stitches. He set the needle down, washed his hands, and met his audience’s gaze with a smile of triumph tinged with nerves. Is it successful? Will he live?" asked Morrison, almost in a whisper. Lang cast a second glance at the patient’s eyes, then felt his pulse. It was weak. He inhaled harshly, his hands chilled to the touch. Have you any stimulant? Brandy?" Morrison had foreseen the need and brought a bottle. Lang pressed a few spoonfuls into his mouth between his clenched teeth. The pulse fluttered, then relapsed. Lang shrugged his shoulders. " Will he live—become conscious?" | 0.1 | Adventure stories | Mullen, Stanley | Pollock, Francis L. | 64362 | 67678 | Mullen, Stanley_[The Prison of the Stars]_1500_8_0.1 | Pollock, Francis L._[The Glacier Gate: An Adventure Story]_1500_33_0.6 |
"I can't stop a minute, but felt I must run over to find out if you'd begun preparations. " " I haven't, and whether you see me there or not depends. I will let you know to-morrow. " " But you must go, because we won't take no for an answer. " Aunt Nancy shook her head, as if the matter were highly uncertain, and the visitor took her leave, insisting that the townspeople could not do without their coffee maker. I'm sure I don't know what to do," the little woman said with a long-drawn sigh when she and Jack were alone. " If you haven't money enough, why not leave me an' Louis here alone? I'll be awful careful with the house, an' there can't any accident happen. " " I have no fear in trusting you, dear Jack, yet, as I told Mrs. Hayes, it should never be considered even for a minute. Ain't there some way I might earn the money?" " Bless you, no, child. Even if I was willing you should do such a thing, there isn't any time. The most costly part has always been supplying coffee to everyone in the tent, an effort that demands a great deal of resources. Why, Deacon Downs himself can drink three cups of a morning, an' then look around sort of wishfully for another. I always give it to him, too, if there's enough left in the pot. " Jack felt terrible, realizing he could offer no help to the woman in distress, while Louis laughed and crowed as though the whole affair were merely a comic joke. Aunt Nancy hurried around the house, busily engaging in a surplus of unnecessary work; her furrowed brow revealed she was weighing the matter with the utmost seriousness, and Jack watched each of her movements. Finally the problem was solved: her face lit up as she scooped Louis into her arms and settled into the rocking chair, and she cheerfully said, “I don’t think William Dean would try to give you trouble now, Jack.” Neither do I. Mr. Souders probably scolded him for mixin' up the harness, and he won't bother me. " " Do you feel quite certain of that?" " Indeed I do. " " Then would it be too much of a walk for you to go to Treat's store?" " Of course it wouldn't, Aunt Nancy. You've only to say the word, an' I'll be off like a shot. " Jack seized his hat and seemed poised to bolt, yet she stopped him and said, “There's no need for such haste.” It will take me some time to fix the errand so you can do it. Last season Daniel Chick farmed the back field for me on shares, and I have quite a lot of wheat on hand. Mr. Treat wanted to buy it, and now I'm going to accept his offer. In case he still wants it, you must bring back some things from the store. " " Am I to get the coffee?" " No, that would be too large a bundle. I'll write Mr. Treat a letter, and the remainder of the business you can arrange. " Jack felt a swell of joy at his ability to help address the troublesome dilemma, and impatiently waited for the small woman to complete her preparations. The task was long – first a letter had to be written, then a list of articles compiled – but Aunt Nancy finished the work, and Jack hurried off with a neatly tied parcel of bread and butter. He returned before she fancied he could have more than gotten there, and brought with him the goods required. " Mr. Treat says he’ll have Daniel Chick haul the wheat, and you’ll know how much there is as soon as it can be weighed. If you want anything more you shall send for it. " " Did he say I could have some money?" Aunt Nancy asked anxiously. " He told me to let you know that you could borrow up to thirty dollars in cash or goods, because he was confident that would be enough. Then everything will be fixed without any trouble, and I will tell Mrs. Hayes we shall go to the camp meeting. Now, Jack dear, lie down a little while and get rested so you can help me. We must do a great deal of cooking before to-morrow night. " For the rest of that afternoon and the following day, the household buzzed with confusion and excitement on par with the frenzy that had marked the sewing‑circle arrangements. With Jack’s help, Aunt Nancy cooked enough provisions to feed a much larger family for two weeks; nevertheless, the little woman explained that she had never liked attending a camp meeting unless she could offer something to those who might come hungry. The neighbors, especially Deacon Downs, had called to confirm whether the “coffee maker” was indeed arriving, and Daniel Chick promised to pick her up in his wagon early the next morning. The deacon consented to oversee the transport of the Mocha, and by the evening before the trip everything appeared to be in “apple‑pie order,” even though, to Aunt Nancy, the house was far from properly arranged. Jack was both tired and excited. He delighted in the prospect of a camp meeting, for he had never attended one and imagined it was meant more for sport than for serious devotion. The baskets were filled; Louis’s white suit, stiff with starch and spotless, lay ready; Jack’s boots were polished until they gleamed like mirrors; and Aunt Nancy spent considerable time lamenting that she could not afford to buy him a new coat and trousers. It wasn’t until late in the evening that the little woman was ready to retire, and it seemed to Jack as if he had just dozed off when she woke him to milk the cow. After feeding the animal it seemed as if a very long time would pass before he could feed it again, and he affectionately patted its sleek sides while explaining that one of Mr. Chick’s daughters would take his place for the next three or four days. The animal probably didn’t understand what he said, but she was perfectly willing to let him go, eager to trade the stuff‑filled barnyard for the cool, inviting pasture. The milk was strained and left on Miss Chick’s doorstep—since Aunt Nancy couldn’t take it with her—and a hurried breakfast followed. It wasn’t too early, since the meal had just been finished when Mr. Chick drove up, fretting that the party wasn’t yet ready to get into the vehicle immediately. Jack was sent about half a dozen times to ensure every door was securely fastened, and the wagon’s owner sweated profusely before Aunt Nancy finally announced that everything was ready. Jack thoroughly enjoyed the ride to the depot, four miles away. The scent of flowers and grasses lingered in the cool air; birds sang hymns of thanksgiving for the new day, and trees whispered of the Creator’s goodness in gifting such a beautiful place for his creatures. Aunt Nancy, looking around with delight, murmured, “It feels almost sinful to bask in such splendor when so many poor people never get to see the countryside at all,” and Mr. Chick, his voice a little husky, replied, “We’re meant to enjoy whatever the world has to offer, while leaving others to carry the burdens that fall upon them.” If that is good doctrine, Daniel Chick, I’d like to know how you would have felt about it when you were down with rheumatism and had to depend on the neighbors to gather the crops. That was a different matter, Nancy Curtis." " In what way?" " Well, you see—I—I—p'rhaps I can't explain it so's you an' the children can understand; but there was a difference. " " Only because you can't put yourself in the situation of others. The Golden Rule is good enough for me yet, and I don't think I'll change it for yours. | "I'm willing to admit that they may not strike here, for I might as well own up to the truth, and say the chances are against two boats coming so far and hitting the same spot on the coast. That doesn't prove, however, that there has been any further disaster. " " Then you do believe that they won't come here?" " Yes." " Why haven't you proposed to make some change?" " I didn't want to say anything until we were certain the boats wouldn't heave in sight. I shouldn’t recommend a move just yet, but since you’ve raised the issue, we might as well speak plainly. Do you think we are likely to be taken off by a vessel?" " Because none have passed within our line of sight, it is clear that the chance of such an event is slim. I’ve realized we’re not on Cuba, so we should head for the nearest town or port. We might stay here for a month, and then wait for a craft to arrive when the surf is so high that a boat cannot land. What do you want to do?" " Strike straight through the woods. There must be people living somewhere nearby, and the sooner we locate them, the sooner we can get home. Why not follow along the beach?" " If this is indeed an island, we could reach the other side faster than by going around, and the beach—covered with coral rocks—is not a suitable road for us when we’re heavily loaded. When do you think we should move? I propose that we remain here today—our water supplies are nearly depleted—and begin our departure early tomorrow morning. It would give us enough time to determine whether the boats are coming, and allow us to properly prepare the traps for carrying. Neal, speaking slowly, replied, “I trust you to know what needs to be done, and I’m ready to follow your plan.” Now that is what I call sensible talk," Jake replied, in a tone of satisfaction. " By concentrating fully on our tasks and eliminating every negative thought—because worrying about what cannot be changed is futile—we will soon extricate ourselves from this predicament. Neal remained silent. Abandoning the shore felt like deserting his father, and though he understood that Jake’s plan had to be followed, it saddened him to imagine moving to a point where the ocean could no longer be seen. Teddy experienced a surge of relief the moment the plan to enter the forest in search of people was finalized. The place seemed anything but pleasant to him, as he could not shake the impression that the drowned sailors would soon wash ashore, and during the dark hours strange thoughts swirled into his mind whenever an odd sound arose. He was eager to discuss the details of the proposed journey with Jake; Neal listened but did not take part, and the matter was arranged to the satisfaction of the engineer and Teddy. The ammunition and other provisions that had been brought ashore were divided into three loads, one of which was considerably heavier than the others, and each load was tied into a shape most convenient for carrying. While most of the game was wrapped in leaves for the travelers to carry, Jake’s greatest concern was that their water supply would run out before they even set off. "It can't be helped," he said ruefully, "and we may be terribly thirsty before we find any water; yet our situation would worsen if we stayed here, so there's little reason to worry." In that swamp you mentioned, we will surely find a supply of water for the thirsty men on a pinch, and I'm confident we will manage just fine. He kept talking about his plans, as if trying to convince himself that the forest journey posed no great danger, until both boys were fully acquainted with what he hoped to achieve – yet he never mentioned his fears. That night, everyone retired early to stay fresh for the following day's work, and when the first faint blush of dawn painted the eastern sky, Jake roused his companions. Turn out, boys," he shouted cheerily. " We should make the most of these cool hours, since we must halt at noon and aim to traverse the forest as quickly as possible. While speaking, he fastened the heaviest package onto his back, and after a hurried dip in the sea, Neal and Teddy took up their loads. At the outset the forest was still cloaked in darkness, yet with each passing moment the gloom eased, and by sunrise the path was visible with only slight difficulty. To travel very rapidly was out of the question. In some areas the underbrush was so dense that great effort was required to make a passage, yet speed never exceeded about two miles per hour. In the swamp they found an abundance of cool, clear water, and Jake used it to fill the two bottles—their only means of carrying a supply of the precious liquid. At noon they paused for a long break, and when the sun began to set, the weary march resumed. The thorns were far from being the least cause of the travelers’ suffering; an inexperienced observer would find a description of the myriad spines and needles that project from the strange plants in these vast forests exaggerated. They vary in size and shape, and in many places they block a man's progress through the foliage—even when he is armed with a machete. Often one must take a long detour to avoid painful obstructions, and before the day’s journey reached its halfway point all three castaways already bore bloody evidence of what those natural bristles can do. The siesta was cut short because Jake realized they needed to finish the walk quickly, and with the afternoon barely past the halfway point they were suddenly surprised to find a clearing right in the middle of the forest. After wandering among the luxuriant vegetation, the travelers were nearly stunned by an avenue of banana trees—clearly planted by human hands—and, following them further, the small party was even more surprised to find a white man idly swinging in a hammock. Jake stepped forward, clearly skeptical, and said hesitantly, “We had no intention of intruding, sir; we followed the line of banana trees without the slightest expectation of finding a gentleman’s home.” The stranger replied, “Don’t apologize,” in clear English, and sprang to his feet as though alarmed. Although I don’t usually have visitors in this secluded spot, those from my own background are still welcome. Will you walk into the house? " After a struggle through the foliage, the boys spotted a small cabin barely large enough to be called a dwelling, and Jake answered swiftly: “We would prefer to remain here.” Having walked since sunrise, you can imagine how satisfying it would be to find a place to rest our legs without the threat of scorpions or snakes. I can’t guarantee that you’ll avoid any problems with those visitors, but you’re welcome to decide how you’ll proceed. Jake slammed himself to the ground and, panting, asked, “How close are we to a harbor?” We have just disembarked from a pleasure yacht that was wrecked by fire, and we have no idea where we are. You are now in Yucatán, and you probably know exactly how close it is to the coast. Jake repeated in surprise. " Exactly, and not so very far from the famed Silver City of the Chan Santa Cruz Indians. | 0.8 | Adventure stories | Kaler, James Otis | Kaler, James Otis | 41708 | 21268 | Kaler, James Otis_[The Curse of Eve]_1500_28_0.4 | Kaler, James Otis_[The Search for the Silver City: A Tale of Adventure in Yucatan]_1500_12_0.7 |
XVI These events had for a moment distracted my mind, but as soon as I was alone I felt the ever-increasing burden of my duty towards Markovitch. That sensation was utterly dreamlike, compelling me to act on one side while simultaneously preventing me from taking any action. I felt the strange inertia of the spectator in the nightmare, who sees the house tumbling about his head and cannot move. Besides, what action could I take? I could not restrain Markovitch, forbid him from leaving the flat, lock Semyonov in his room, or alert the police—especially since the police were no longer present. Moreover, Vera and Bohun and the others were surely capable of watching Markovitch. Nevertheless a quiet conviction in my heart declared that I alone must step into the story… as dusk draped the streets in pale, ghostly shadows on the eve of the white nights, I caught sight of three pursuing silhouettes—Semyonov, Markovitch, and myself—and the chase began. I was pursuing, and yet held. I went back to my flat, but all that night I could not sleep. Already the first music of the May Day processions could be heard, distant trumpets and drums, before I sank into uneasy, bewildered slumber. I dreamt then dreams so fantastic and irresolute that I cannot now disentangle them. I remember that I was standing beside the banks of the Neva. The river surged, flinging itself furiously along in the great, tempestuous manner it always has during the first days of the ice’s melt. The sky grew darker—the water rose. I sought refuge in the upper gallery of a church whose domes glowed pale green, and from there I watched the flood—first as it spilled over the quays in glittering cascades past the high parapet, trickling in thin streams and puddles, then rising to blanket the streets in sheeted waves that rolled against the walls, flooding doors and windows until only the distant spires remained visible. I do not know what happened to my security, and saw at length the waters stretch from sky to sky, one dark, tossing ocean. The sun rose, a dead yellow; slowly the waters sank again, islands appeared, stretches of mud and waste. Heaving their huge bodies out of the ocean, vast monsters crawled through the mud, scaled and horned, lying like logs beneath the dead sun. The waters sank—forests rose. After the sun sank below the horizon, the night deepened, then a faint dawn broke, and in the gentle light of early morning a man stood on the beach, shading his eyes and gazing out over the sea. I fancied that in that strong bearded figure I recognised my peasant, who had seemed to haunt my steps so often. Gravely he looked round him, then turned back into the forest.... Was my dream thus? Frankly I do not know—too neat an allegory to be true, perhaps—and yet there was something of this in it. I know that I saw Boris, the Rat, Vera, Semyonov, and Markovitch appearing, vanishing, and reappearing, yet the drowned, ruined world was only a backdrop, untouched by them; and Markovitch again seemed to approach me and cry, “Be patient… be patient… Have faith… be faithful!” I remember waking up, struggling to keep him with me and shouting that he should not leave, for that would be dangerous. Then I opened my eyes to find my room flooded with sunshine, while my old woman looked at me with disapproval. Wake up, Barin," she was saying, "it's three o'clock. " " Three o'clock?" I muttered, trying to pull myself together. " Three in the afternoon... I have some tea for you. " When I realised the time I had the sensation of the wildest panic. I jumped from my bed, pushing the old woman out of the room. I had betrayed my trust! I had betrayed my trust! I felt assured 'that some awful catastrophe had occurred, something that I might have prevented. When I was dressed, disregarding my housekeeper's cries, I rushed out into the street. At my end of the Ekaterinsgofsky Canal I was stopped by great throngs of men and women returning homewards from the procession. They were marching, most of them, in ordered lines across the street, arm in arm, singing the "Marseillaise. " Very different from the procession a few weeks before. That had been dumb, cowed, bewildered. This was the movement of a people conscious of their freedom, sure of themselves, disdaining the world. Everywhere bands were playing, banners were glittering, and from the very heart of the soil, as it seemed, the "Marseillaise" was rising. Although the sun only shone at brief intervals, there was a sense of spring warmth in the air. For some time I could not cross the street, then I broke through and almost ran down the deserted stretch of the Canal. I arrived almost breathless at the door in the English Prospect. There I found Sacha watching the people and listening to the distant bands. " Sacha!" I cried, "is Alexei Petrovitch at home?" " No, Barin," she answered, looking at me in some surprise. " He went out about a quarter of an hour ago. " " And Nicholas Markovitch?" " He went out just now. " " Did he tell you where he was going?" " No, Barin, but I heard Alexei Petrovitch tell him, an hour back, that he was going to Katerinhof. " I did not listen to more. I turned and went. Katerinhof was a park just ten minutes’ walk from my island, named for the wooden palace of Catherine the Great that had once stood there. She had once used it as her summer home, but now it had been opened to the public and, each spring and summer, turned into a kind of fair and pleasure garden. The place had always been to me romantic and melancholy, with the old faded wooden palace, the deserted ponds, and the desolate trees. I had never been there in the summer. I don't know with what idea I hurried there. All I can say is that I was forced to leave, and I went as if I were still living the dream of that morning. Great numbers of people were hurrying there also. The road was thronged, and many of them sang as they went. Looking back now it has entirely a dream-like colour. I stepped from the road under the trees, and was at once in a world of incredible fantasy. So far as the eye could see there were peasants; the air was filled with an indescribable din. As I stepped deeper into the shelter of the leafless trees, the colors swirled before my eyes, mingling and spreading like fluttering banners. Nearby stood the tub‑thumpers, now a familiar sight in Petrograd—men of the Grogoff type pounding and shouting from their platforms, surrounded by open‑mouthed soldiers and peasants. Also present were the quacks you’d find at any European fair—pseudo‑dentists, charlatan physicians, men hawking ointments for sores, tablets, bright liquid vials, and tricks claiming to mend ruptures and broken limbs. A little way beyond them were the pedlars. Here were the wildest men in the world. Tartars and Letts and Indians, Asiatics with long yellow faces, and strange fellows from Northern Russia. They had an entire array of wares for sale—bright beads, spectacles, lacquered trays, color‑filled boxes in red, green, and yellow, lace and silk, and garments in every hue from purple to crimson to gold. From all these men there rose a deafening gabble. I pressed farther, although the crowd now around me was immense, and so I reached the heart of the fair. Here were enormous merry-go-rounds, and I had never seen such glittering things. They were from China, Japan, where you will. They hung in bright, gleaming hues, draped with tinsel and silver; as they spun, they released wild, barbaric cries that might have been, in some far‑Eastern city, the universal song of love. The colors flashed, whirled, dazzled, and light glittered from stem to stem of the silent brown trees. Here was the very soul of the East. Near me a Chinaman, squatting on his haunches, was showing before a gaping crowd the exploits of his trained mice, who walked up and down little crimson ladders, poked their trembling noses through holes of purple silk, and ran shivering down precipices of golden embroidery. | I was indeed startled by the clearness with which I saw that earlier figure—the very awkward, careless, ugly boy, listening lazily to other people's plans, taking shelter from life under a vague love of beauty and an idle imagination; the man, awkward and ugly, sensitive because of his own self-consciousness, wasting his hours through his own self-contempt which paralysed all effort, still trusting to his idle love of beauty to pull him through to some superior standard, complaining of life, but never trying to get the better of it; then the man who came to Russia at the beginning of the war, still self-centred, always given up to timid self-analysis, but responding now a little to the new scenes, the new temperament, the new chances. Once freed from the tiresome burdens of his past, the man let himself go, fell in love, worshiped, and dreamed of a marvelous vision for several days—only now, for the first time in his life, he stepped onto the battlefield. With striking clarity I saw every step, noticing each small thought, action, and missed or seized opportunity, all of which piled up until the climactic moment that arrived four hours earlier. I felt as though I had borne Polchester on my back into war, and I could see clearly how each of us—Marie, Semyonov, Nikitin, Durward, and the rest—had carried their own private histories and scenes with them. War, to me, is not forged of shells or bullets, German victories or defeats, Russian triumphs or surrenders, or the sea‑and‑sea‑land battles of England and France, nor of smoke, wounds, and blood. It is made instead of a vast sea of past thoughts and scenes—little country towns, lonely hills, sheltered valleys, the wide expanse of the sea, the crowded streets of New York, London, Berlin, and beyond. It encompasses all those smaller moments: petty quarrels, Christmas dances, night walks, morning awakenings, dressing for dinner, meeting old friends, illness, theater, church services, prostitution, slums, cricket matches, children, tram rides, hot‑morning baths, the sudden sting of an unpleasant truth from a friend, the fleeting spark of divine consciousness, even death. How clear that all became to me now. During these weeks, I had pondered and pursued the thought of death. Was this it? Was it really that? Was it pain? Was it terror? I feared it, just as I did when I saw the dead bodies in the forest or stood beneath the rain in Nijnieff. I had laughed at it just as I’d laughed when I went with the sanitarians. I had cursed it just as I had when Marie Ivanovna died. I had sought it as I had last night, and as I drew increasingly close I imagined it as a dreadful allegorical figure—terrible, appalling, devastating—only when I thought I faced it head‑on did I realize I was simply confronting myself. For four long hours I've been writing, and yet the wagons remain absent. I jot everything down as it comes to mind, because these images are suddenly crystal‑clear—yet I already sense that they will be altered, twisted, by time. I was drowsy. Polchester’s High Street, Garth in Roselands, Clinton, and Truxe all captivated me, but Rafiel stood out as the most remarkable of all. I descended the high white hill, plunged into the valley, followed the road beside the stream where houses began, passed the unremarkable Wesleyan Chapel on my right and the “Ebenezer Villa” on my left, then the cottages with their gardens, the little street, the post‑office, the butcher’s, the bend in the road, and suddenly found myself at the bay where fishing boats lay at anchor, the sea stretching beyond—England and Russia. To their strong, confident union I pledged every drop of my blood and every beat of my heart; as I lay there, I seemed to behold the deep green lanes of Rafiel on one side and, on the other, the shining canals, the little wooden houses, the cobbler’s workshop, and the tufted trees of Petrograd, the sea coast beyond Truxe, the wide, snow‑covered plains beyond Moscow, the cathedral at Polchester and the Kremlin—each nurturing children for the hundredth generation, united in the same hopes, beliefs, and desires. I lay beneath the sun’s warmth, contentedly dreaming. Upon rereading these final pages, I noticed some striking passages, including the phrase “giving every drop of blood.” etc. Certainly, I'm not that kind of man. Men like Durward and myself—who share many traits yet differ in strength and lack of concern for others' opinions—tend to be overly analytical and self‑critical, so they seldom give much of their blood to anyone or make it especially valuable even when they do. I merely intended to do my best. Later in the morning, the artillery fire resumed at close range. Andrey Vassilievitch approached me, eager to speak. I was brief with him because I was busy. He wanted to assure me that he hoped I hadn’t taken his quarrel with Nikitin last night the wrong way. It amounted to nothing. His nerves had been somewhat unsettled. He was far better that day, feeling like an entirely new man. He looked at another man, and I said so. He said that I did… Strangely, as I looked at him I felt he seemed to be suffering from a serious illness. Sometimes one feels something about people but cannot name its cause. I have affection for the little man—though he is an awful fool. I feel the same, yet fools never respect fellow fools—strangely, Semyonov proves to be no exception. I had sensed, for some reason, that he would be different today. Still, of course, it feels very sarcastic to me. I had a hole in one of my pockets, and I kept forgetting that I'd been slipping money and other items into it. It seemed to irritate him. But today, nothing matters. Even the flies don't rattle my nerves. All morning, Marie seemed to be standing right beside me. I feel a peculiar thrill—like being on a train that’s approaching the station where someone dear awaits—so much so that it feels as if I’m embarking on a journey, and since three o’clock we’ve been enjoying a lively time. At about 2:55 p.m., the attack began when a shell burst into the forest near our battery. Fortunately, no one was killed. They simply vanished thereafter. I don’t seem able to grasp it, so I’ve been writing in my room as if it were a hundred miles away. He was so accustomed to the noise. Everything is ready. All the wounded have been readied for treatment. If only the wagons could arrive—hello! A shell detonated in the garden, cracking one of the windows. I must go down and see whether anyone has touched it… I’ve slipped it into my bag. Tomorrow, I am so happy that this marks the end of Trenchard’s diary. These are Trenchard’s last entries in his diary. It takes up roughly half of the second exercise book. The final pages were written in a hand that was far clearer and steadier than the earlier ones. I now wish to keep my account as concise as possible. During the afternoon of August 16 we all gathered in Mittoevo, anxiously concerned for our friends. Molozov was seized with intense alarm. The sanitars, who arrived with their wagons at around four in the afternoon, warned us that a violent attack on the area surrounding our white house could erupt at any moment. The wagons were to return as quickly as possible and evacuate everyone. They left at about five o’clock, entrusting Molozov and Goga—who were buzzing with excitement—to take charge. I knew they wouldn’t be back until at least nine, yet nerves pushed me out onto the crosswalk around seven, where I stood in restless silence and watched. It was a very dark night, yet the sky ignited with searchlights and rockets, their bright flares slipping behind the forest and glittering across the river. The cannonade raged relentlessly, yet its true proximity remained indistinguishable. Finally, by about half‑past‑eight, I could no longer endure my ignorance and began descending the hill toward the bridge. Having been there for less than ten minutes, I had just watched a shell explode in a brilliant burst of flame high in the opposite woods when, suddenly, our wagons clattered up from the darkness. I saw at once that something was wrong. | 0.6 | Historical fiction | Walpole, Hugh | Walpole, Hugh | 12349 | 19614 | Walpole, Hugh_[The Secret City]_1500_86_0.2 | Walpole, Hugh_[The Dark Forest]_1500_64_0.9 |
Now, there is Mr. —-, the great breeder, a very fairish man, with very fairish horses; but, Lord bless you, he's nothing to what his father was, nor his steeds to his father's; I ought to know, for I was at the school here with his father, and afterwards for many a year helped him to get up his horses; that was when I was young, measter—those were the days. "You look at that monument, master," he said as I stopped and looked attentively at a brass plaque on the southern side of the church near the altar; "it was erected to honor a rector who served this church long ago during Oliver’s reign, who was ill‑treated and imprisoned by Oliver and his men; all of its history can be read on the monument." A grand battle was fought near this place between Oliver’s men and the Royal party; the Royalists suffered the worst, while Oliver’s forces entered the town, causing extensive damage and mistreating its inhabitants. I can't remember any details myself, since the battle happened a hundred years before I was born, but my father knew an old countryman who lived a few miles from here and claimed to remember the day vividly: he was a boy then, working in a field near the battlefield, and heard shouting, gunfire, and the clatter of cannonballs that landed close by. Come this way, measter, and I will show you some remains of that day's field.' Leaving the monument that bore an account of Horncastle’s Royalist rector’s life and sufferings, I trailed the sexton to the western end of the church, where scythes were propped against the wall, their pole ends sunk into the masonry. "Those are the weapons, master," the sexton explained, "handed by the great men to the rural folk so they could use them against Oliver's forces. They were crude, but in the end Oliver's men prevailed, and Sir Jacob Ashley and his party were defeated." And at a rare juncture Oliver and his men held sway; until Oliver’s death, the opposition gained the upper hand—not by battle, as the story goes, but by the shifting allegiance of General Monk. Ah, the old fellow that my father knew, said he well remembered the time when General Monk went over and proclaimed Charles the Second. Bonfires lit everywhere, oxen were roasted, and beer was drunk in pailfuls; the country folk, drunk with joy, sang scurvy songs about Oliver to the tune of Barney Banks and pelted his men with stones and dirt wherever they were found. The more ungrateful scoundrels they,' said I. 'Oliver and his men fought the battle of English independence against a wretched king and corrupt lords. Had I been living at the time, I should have been proud to be a trooper of Oliver.' ' You would, measter, would you? Well, I never quarrels with the opinions of people who come to look at the church, and certainly independence is a fine thing. I enjoy seeing men of independent spirit, and if I were to meet one who refuses to sell his horse to Lord Screw and Whitefeather and instead hands it to Jack Dale, I'd gladly offer him a pint of beer—yes, I would, indeed. Well, Master, now that you’ve seen the church and all its noteworthy contents, I’ll just lock up, finish digging the grave I began before you arrived, and then head to the fair to see how things are going. "Thank ye, measter," he said as I handed him something; "thank ye kindly— it isn’t every day people give me a shilling when they come to see the church. Times are very different now compared with when I was young; I wasn’t a sexton then but something better—helped Mr. —‑ with his horses and earned many a broad crown." Those were the days, Master—both for men and for horses—and I ask you, Master, if in my youth men and horses were so far better than they are now, how must they have been during Oliver’s reign? An old acquaintance, after leaving the church, I ambled through the fair, gazing at the horses, listening to the chatter of buyers and sellers, and occasionally interjecting my own remarks—remarks not always received with due deference. Suddenly, however, when a whisper arose that I was the young cook who had brought the splendid horse to the fair that Jack Dale had bought for the foreigne merchant, I found myself the focus of great attention, while those who had previously answered with… and nonsense! Everything I said was received with eager curiosity, and I found myself speaking more than I intended. Yet, as I grew weary of the crowd around me, I pushed my way through the admirers—roughly, without much courtesy—traversing alleys and backstreets until I reached the outskirts of the fair, where no one seemed to know me. Here I stood, staring vacantly at what was happening, musing on the peculiar fixation of people like me, who judge a person's words not by their inherent merit but by opinions—usually erroneous—that they have formed about that person. From this reverie I was awakened by words that drifted near me, spoken in an odd tone and cadence: “Those who find, win; and those who cannot find, lose.” I turned my gaze toward the words and saw six or seven countrymen clustered around a man standing behind a tall, white table, its compass exceedingly small. What,' said I, 'the thimble-engro of —- Fair here at Horncastle.' Advancing nearer, however, I perceived that though the present person was a thimble-engro, he was a very different one from my old acquaintance of —- Fair. The present one was a fellow about half-a-foot taller than the other. His face was long, haggard, and wild, and he wore a soldier‑style jacket, tattered hempen trousers, and a foreign‑looking peaked hat. With an unmistakably Irish accent, he occasionally altered the usual thimble refrain to “them that finds wins, and them that can’t—och sure!—they lose,” and he habitually addressed others as “your honour” instead of “my lord.” I observed, on drawing nearer, that he handled the pea and thimble with some awkwardness, like that which might be expected from a novice in the trade. He contrived, however, to win several shillings, for he did not seem to play for gold, from 'their honours.' Awkward as he was, he evidently did his best, and never flung a chance away by permitting anyone to win. He had just taken three shillings from a farmer who, furious at his loss, called him a confounded cheat and swore he would no longer play, when Jack the jockey—my friend from the previous day—arrived. After giving the thimble man a quick, crafty look, this worthy clapped a shilling onto the table and shouted, “I’ll stand you, old fellow!” Them that finds wins; and them that can't—och, sure!—they loses,' said the thimble man. The game commenced, and Jack took up the thimble without finding the pea; another shilling was produced, and lost in the same manner. ' This is slow work,' said Jack, banging down a guinea on the table: 'can you cover that, old fellow?' The man of the thimble looked at the gold, and then at him who produced it, and scratched his head. ' Come, cover that, or I shall be off,' said the jockey. ' Ah, sure, my lord—no, I mean your honour—ah, sure, your lordship,” said the other. “If I can cover it at all, I must use silver, for I have no gold with me.” Well, then, produce the value in silver,' said the jockey, 'and do it quickly, for I can't be staying here all day.' The thimble man hesitated, looked at Jack with a dubious look, then at the gold, and then scratched his head. | Now the present writer will not join in such sycophancy. He was not afraid to assume Wellington’s role when it was shamelessly exploited by every faction, nor when it proved dangerous to do so. He noted in 1832 that Wellington’s vices were no worse than those of his contemporaries, but by 1854 he would refuse to describe Wellington as a man of noble heart—he was convinced that no colder‑hearted person had ever lived. His conduct toward Warner, the poor Vaudois, and Marshal Ney demonstrated this. In 1832 he claimed to be a capable general and a courageous man, yet by 1854 he would no longer assert he was the finest general—or the bravest man the world has ever known. England has produced a better general; France has produced two or three—both nations boast many braver men. The son of the Norfolk clergyman was brave, but Marshal Ney was even braver. Oh, that battle of Copenhagen! Ah, the covering of the Grand Army’s retreat! Although he boasted in 1832 that he could write, he no longer claims in 1854 to be the finest military writer. Contrary to his cautious tone elsewhere, he eagerly declares that every commentary on Julius Parthian is as valuable as ten volumes of Wellington’s dispatches, fully aware that such a statement will irk a particular liberal‑tipped, genteel newspaper that once derided Wellington’s literacy. After the preceding remark, no one will claim that, if the writer is inclined to criticize Radicals, he is motivated by a desire to flatter princes, curry favour with Tories, or merely idolise the Duke of Wellington; nor will he denounce the Radicals, true Republicans, or their principles, for he is essentially an admirer of both. The writer has always valued truth and sincerity as much as he despises falsehood and deceit. Real Republicanism is indeed a commendable ideal—far superior to Toryism, a scheme of widespread robbing, and even better than Whiggism, a mixture of petty theft, public education, and profiting from stolen goods. Real Republicanism is indeed a commendable ideal, and your true Radicals and Republicans were certainly fine people—though where to find them now is uncertain, and the writer does not know. If he chose to, he would gladly travel five miles to invite one of them to dinner, even if that required him to go to a workhouse to locate the person he had in mind. Among the real Radicals of England who rose to prominence from 1816 to 1820, there were undeniably remarkable figures—men who may have been partially mad, but who were honest and valiant. They did not manipulate the principles they espoused for personal gain, nor did they intend to do so; instead, they truly believed in those principles and were ready to risk their lives to bring them to fruition. The writer specifically wishes to discuss two of these men—Thistlewood and Ings—both of whom were executed on the scaffold. Thistlewood, the most renowned among them, was a valiant soldier who served with distinction as an officer in the French army; he excelled as a swordsman of Europe, having fought several duels in France—where duel‑taking was no trivial matter—yet he never drew his blade in single combat, using it only to defend the weak and insulted; he was kind and open‑hearted, though at times marked by naïve simplicity, and once possessed ten thousand pounds, all of which he lent to a friend who vanished without repaying a single cent. Ings was an uneducated, short‑statured man, yet he possessed remarkable strength and resolve; he was a devoted husband and father, and although he worked as a humble butcher, his name belonged to the royal lineages of the ancient Anglo‑Saxons. Along with five others, these two men were executed—heads hacked off—on the charge of levying war against George IV; all seven died in a manner that drew cheers from the crowd, many of whom shouted philosophical or patriotic slogans. Just before his execution, Thistlewood—perhaps the most calm and collected of them all—declared, “We are now going to discover the great secret.” Ings, on the very instant before the choke closed around him, sang, “Scots who have bled with Wallace.” Now there was no deception about those men, nor any about the many others from the same period who shared those principles. Although they, like Algernon Sidney and Brutus, may have been misled by fantasies of republicanism, they were no less honest or courageous than either of those figures—and just as willing to die for their principles. But the Radicals who followed were very different: they made a career of Republicanism and now either have abandoned it or are willing to give it up for a price. By spreading incendiary rhetoric to hand the Whigs a seat at the table for themselves, they pushed the nation to the brink of revolution, leading to the execution of many on the scaffold; their fiery speeches and newspaper tirades ignited the Bristol blaze, for which six poor souls were put to death, and they encouraged mobs to pillage, destroy, and burn, then watched from the rooftops. Thistlewood declares to the mob that the Tower is a second Bastille and urges its demolition. While a mob attempts to pull down the Tower, Thistlewood leads it; he does not lurk from a garret on Tower Hill like Gulliver in Lisbon. Thistlewood and Ings told a ragged group of twenty that Liverpool and Castlereagh were nothing more than satellites of despotism, and that it would be prudent to remove them. A number of ragged men were caught in a stable on Cato Street while plotting to eliminate Castlereagh and Liverpool; they were fired upon by Grenadiers and cutlassed by Bow Street runners. Yet the two who urged them to meet in Cato Street are not far away—they are not on the opposite side of the river, such as in the Borough, in a garret or lurid cellar. The first to take on the Guards and their runners were Thistlewood and Ings; Thistlewood hurled his long, thin rapier through Smithers’ lungs, while Ings rushed at Fitzclarence clutching his butcher’s knife. Indeed, there was something captivating in those fellows! Honesty and courage—yet can the same be ascribed to those who incited the troubles of 1832? No; they roused ignorant mechanics and rustic laborers into tearing down and burning property, only to have those men hanged, and the pinnacle of their recklessness was mobbing Wellington as he passed through the streets. Those were charlatans, but neither Thistlewood nor Ings were among them. They raved and bellowed against kings, queens, Wellington, the aristocracy, and all that, until their machinations had brought the Whigs to power—an alliance they had secretly kept with them—and thereafter, together, they joined in a system of robbery and corruption far more flagitious than the old Tory rule, because it was marked by greater hypocrisy; for themselves they secured consulships, commissionerships, and, in some cases, entire governments, and for their sons clerkships in public offices, who could be seen sporting the unmistakable badge of low scoundrels—a gilt chain at the waistcoat pocket—while the fathers spoke in languishing tones and employed the airs and graces of women who, though not from the family, sought to convince their keepers that they were indeed of it. Assuredly great is the cleverness of your Radicals of '32, in providing for themselves and their families. | 0.6 | Adventure stories | Borrow, George | Borrow, George | 25071 | 422 | Borrow, George_[The Romany Rye A Sequel to 'Lavengro']_1500_81_0.5 | Borrow, George_[Weale's Series of Scientific and Technical Works]_1500_107_0.9 |
As we made our way down the path we talked on many subjects, European politics, of which her knowledge was extensive, the beauties of the East, literature and art; but, somehow or another, however far we might wander from it, the conversation invariably came back to the epidemic that was the occasion of my presence in the settlement. Finally, we left the jungle and began descending the steep slope on a long flight of wooden steps that led to the start of the main street. Bathed in bright sunlight, the township appeared as a charming little town, its orderly, well‑planted streets framed by neat European houses and picturesque native huts. It was difficult to imagine that, though it appeared clean and healthy, the town had already lost more than a quarter of its population to one of humanity’s most deadly pestilences. I was so impressed by its beauty that I stood there for a moment or two, speechless. Then I looked at my companion. She, like me, had kept her mouth shut for the last hundred yards, and now, as she surveyed her kingdom, I watched her beautiful eyes fill with tears. "Dr. De Normanville," she said as we reached the bottom of the steps, "if you’ll allow me, once we are a little better acquainted, I’ll tell you the story of this place and how it has shaped my life." Then you will be able to understand how it is that I am so much affected by my people's sufferings. " I murmured an appropriate reply and we entered the village. Our arrival had been eagerly anticipated, and at the gate of the first house we met an elderly man who was clearly a prominent figure in the town. He had a light complexion with somewhat Scandinavian features, and although he spoke both Chinese and the local language with remarkable fluency, he was unmistakably more than half English. On seeing my companion he raised his hat politely and waited for her to speak. " "Mr. Christianson," she said, extending her hand, "this is Dr. De Normanville, who has graciously come to our aid from Hong Kong." I don't think it's necessary to assure him that you'll give him the same full assistance in this terrible crisis that you have already provided me. The old man bowed to me, and then addressed my companion. " We have done our best in your absence," he said sorrowfully; "but it seems as if Fate were against us. Currently, there are 130 reported cases—84 men, 23 women, and 23 children. Yesterday there were eighteen deaths—among them your old coxswain Kusae, who died at 7 a.m., and his wife Ellai, who followed him within an hour. The Englishman, Brandon, died at midday, his wife during the afternoon, and their only child this morning, scarcely an hour ago. Doctor, is there any hope at all of our being able to stop this awful plague?" I reassured him that we would do our best, and he acknowledged that no one could ask or expect more of us. Once our conversation concluded, I had taken a strong liking to the old fellow, and with Alie's permission immediately appointed him as my second in command. Now," I said, turning to her, "before we commence our work let me exactly understand my position. With what powers am I invested?" " With full and complete authority," she answered promptly. " Whatever you may deem best for my unfortunate people, please do without consulting anyone. Believe me, no one will attempt to dispute your right. " " That is as it should be, and I thank you," I said. " Now, will you tell me where my own abode is to be? It should be located as far from the centre of the infected district as possible, yet close enough to remain convenient for all inhabitants. "I was thinking of the house on the mound at the foot of the hill," she said, pointing her beautiful hand toward a neat weather‑board building some hundred yards away, adding, "In fact, I've even ordered it to be ready for you." Shall we go and examine it?" Accompanied by the old man, we set off for it, watched eagerly by a crowd of natives whose faces showed they regarded me as their deliverer. The house turned out to be a cozy four‑room dwelling, and the lavish furnishings of its two living rooms clearly showed that it had received considerable care and attention. Upon entry, a bright‑witted local boy was ushered out of an inner room and told in English that I was his new master and that he would ensure I had everything I needed. It is only fitting to note that during my time on the island, no man could have wished for a better, more reliable servant. After passing through the bedroom and sitting‑room, we arrived at the room at the end of the verandah, which I found had been set aside and furnished as a surgery. Along the walls, shelves displayed an ample supply of medicines sufficient to stock a dozen chemist’s shops, while my instruments, cases, and other paraphernalia were laid out on the central table. Overall, the arrangements were fully satisfactory and complete, and I conveyed this to Alie, who was watching me from the window. It is all Mr. Christianson's doing," she said. " You must thank him. " I did so, and then proposed that we should set about our work at once. " In the first place, Mr. Christianson," I began, "have you had any symptoms of the disease yourself?" " Not one! Since it started I have been as well as I remember ever to have been in my life. " " When were you vaccinated last?" I asked the question, though I was somewhat hesitant, fearing that doing so might stir up an unpleasant memory in the old man's mind. “Regardless of his past—which, I later learned, was as romantic as that of most men here—he replied without hesitation: ‘I was vaccinated in Liverpool, next March, twelve years ago.’” Then, with your permission, I'll do it for you again. After that we'll call up the heads of the village and I'll operate on them. " So saying, I unpacked my things, and, having done so, vaccinated my second in command. When this was accomplished, he gave me a list he had prepared of the half-dozen principal inhabitants. They were summoned immediately, and upon their arrival Alie gave them a brief speech explaining my role. Now, gentlemen, I said after her address, “given the seriousness of our circumstances and the need for a coordinated attack on the disease that has decimated your population, I propose that you join my staff.” Each of you will be given specific duties, and I am confident you will perform them to the very best of your ability. Before we proceed further—since none of you have yet been vaccinated—I will vaccinate everyone, just as I have just done for Mr. Christianson. When that has been accomplished we will get properly to work. " Within about half an hour the task was finished, freeing me to proceed with my next course of action. After a brief exchange with Alie, I declared, "We will now gather the healthy villagers in the town’s green." In the blink of an eye, summoned by my command, the entire mobile populace gathered in the open area before my verandah—blacks and whites, yellows and copper‑tanned, all intermingled, higgledy‑piggledy, in revelatory chaos. From a cursory glance at them they appeared to come from all countries and from all parts of the globe. I could distinguish Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, Swedes, Italians, Portuguese, Spaniards, Russians, Hindoos, Malays, Dyaks, and even Chinamen. The dusky population, however, predominated. | No, no, don't be afraid, we have taken very good care of ourselves; nobody has come out, not even the old mole himself; and certainly no one has gone in. There's no need for alarm—the money is entirely secure. He would be a clever and courageous man who managed to deceive us. Veneda breathed again. It was an anxious moment, but he tried to convince himself that he hadn’t betrayed his unease while at the same time learning everything he wanted. The questions he was about to ask were meant solely to dispel any doubts his behavior might have provoked. And after the money is ours? It will be divided right here, in the spirit of the capstan‑head, and once each man has taken his share, he may raise his stakes and go to the devil on his own terms. What do you estimate the total will be? Remember the old man had a good slice of it himself. Lord grant me patience! How many additional questions would you like to ask? Why, as close as we can make it, are two hundred and twenty‑five thousand pounds not enough for you? “Pretty close,” Veneda replied with a laugh, “and now—if you’ve got anything else to do—let’s get right on it.” I've business down town. " When Albino signaled, Vargas set the dice on the table and the gamble began. Veneda’s luck finally paid off when Vargas and the Albino agreed to pull off the robbery. Once that point had been settled and the time for the next‑night’s rendezvous—along with a few other minor details—arranged, Veneda shot them a mocking “good luck” for their endeavour and trotted home as fast as his legs would carry him. As he walked, he chuckled quietly to himself, relishing a joke of extraordinary humor. He was unmistakably in a far more upbeat mood than when we had joined him at the house. He even lost himself entirely, howling a quick whistle. Amid Valparaíso’s turmoil and the absence of any power to suppress unrest, the city remained surprisingly quiet. Everyone was enveloped in a great anxiety, a quiet unease that paid no heed to any noise. Veneda advanced quickly, absorbed in his own thoughts. Yet oddly, he wasn’t thinking of the scene he’d just left or the looming battle the next day; instead he was recalling a box and letter he’d sent to a London merchant a week earlier, and realizing that by the time the Society uncovered his treachery, he would likely already be high‑ocean, beyond the reach of vengeance or defeat. His sole objective was to prevent Juanita from ever suspecting his intentions, no matter the risk. So immersed in his thoughts that he entered his home, slipped inside, and climbed the stairs to his private sanctuary before realizing he had done it. The staircase and the room were engulfed in total darkness. He went over to the match rack, struck one, and lit a nearby candle. When the flame sparked, a low, melodic laugh—clearly feminine—filled his ears. His nerves were evidently strained, causing him to jolt abruptly and nearly tumble both the candle‑stick and the match. With the light held aloft, he glanced toward the source of the sound. The room was large enough for countless shadows to gather, yet the candle offered little light. Juanita?" " Yes, Juanita, indeed—are you surprised to see me? He paused to light two more candles before replying. His visitor clearly noticed his trembling hand. Once the room was lit to his satisfaction and the door was securely shut, he recalled his role as host and greeted her appropriately. When he told her he was glad to see her, she laughed softly and said, “Marcos, I wonder when you will learn to tell a lie with a veneer of truth.” Clearly he saw no merit in answering, so he slumped into a chair, began rolling a cigarette, and refused to light it. Now, when I say that Juanita Encarnación Valdores—whom we have heard of so many times—was a truly remarkable woman, I intend to suggest that her uniqueness extended far beyond the physical to encompass many other aspects as well. Her beauty alone was enough to seize the attention of everyone present. Standing a bit above average height, she carried herself with an erect posture that made her seem several inches taller than she truly was. Even for someone of Spanish descent, her complexion was almost swarthy, and her upper lip bore a hint of what might be irreverently called a moustache. It was odd that while these two traits were serious flaws in other women, in Juanita they not only failed to diminish her allure but, to a great extent, enhanced it. Her hands and feet matched the proportions of her frame—neither too large nor too small—while her manner could shift at will, from caressing to fiendish, and when she wished, her voice and laugh rang in the ear like the sweetest music. Like Marcos Veneda, she was all mysteriousness. Countless fascinating tales circulated about her past, and as a devoted chronicler, I must concede that not all of them cast her in a flattering light. She had spent nearly four years in Chile, but I’m not ready to disclose where she came from before that. We only worry that, at the time of writing, she was unprotected—and seemed likely to remain so—since no man could risk his public reputation by assuming such a position. One possibility is that this led her to turn toward Veneda, whose own predicament, as we have seen, was quite similar to hers. Come, come, Marcos," she said softly, "I can't claim you're the most delightful company this evening." Tell me, don't you think I’m a plucky woman to venture out on a night like this and to call on you, of all people? "I am truly honored," he replied gravely, "but I presume you have a very good reason—otherwise you wouldn't have taken such a risk." She shrugged her shoulders and made a small hand gesture, as if to say, “who knows.” Her demeanor shifted entirely, and as she leaned forward, she placed a hand on his arm. He had been intently gazing at her all this time, trying to read what swirled in her mind from the lines on her face. He steadied himself for the confrontation he sensed looming on the horizon. "Marcos," she whispered softly, the name slipping prettily from her lips, "I suppose you've heard people call me a witch because they say I turn men's heads." People say—pause until I've finished—that I can read men’s thoughts and, often, predict future events. Then, Juanita," he replied as soon as he could interject, "you couldn't have come at a better time." You should read my destiny and counsel me on the path I ought to take. Without another word, she lifted his hand—still resting on the arm of her chair—and examined it carefully. The candle’s flicker illuminated her bowed head, dancing amid the luxuriant tangle of her hair. Shall I tell you everything I see?" she asked. He noticed that her face had suddenly taken on a very serious expression. Why not?" he replied. " I’m frightened, Marcos, she answered, shuddering, “for something dreadful is written on your hand.” In what way?" " Treachery, Marcos—everything for a hefty sum of money! He angrily yanked his hand away, feigning complete disbelief to mask his embarrassment. You are indeed a fortune-teller! You will accuse me of directly assassinating the President. And pray what else did you see?" " I think it's best not to tell you, or you'll just get angry with me. Angry with you! Never!" " Marcos, what I saw on your hand surpassed any dream you could imagine. Silently, I urge you—you're weighing escape. That is not a difficult thing to see. If conditions here do not improve, many of us will be forced to evacuate. Juanita, you're far more clever than that. Oh, but that is not all. | 0.7 | Adventure stories | Boothby, Guy | Boothby, Guy | 37948 | 37081 | Boothby, Guy_[The Beautiful White Devil]_1500_16_0.5 | Boothby, Guy_[The Golden Flood]_1500_6_0.8 |
The young ladies of this country have a dreadfully poky time of it, so far as I can learn; I don't see why I should change my habits for THEM. " " "I'm afraid your habits are those of a flirt," Winterbourne said gravely. "Of course they are," she cried, flashing him her familiar little smile again. I'm a fearful, frightful flirt! Did you ever hear of a nice girl that was not? I expect you’ll tell me now that I’m not a nice girl. “You’re such a nice girl, but I’d like you to flirt just with me,” Winterbourne said. Ah! Thank you—thanks so much; you’re the last person I could ever think of flirting with. I am pleased to inform you that you are too stiff. You say that too often," said Winterbourne. Daisy gave a delighted laugh. " If the thought of angering you ever filled me with longing, I would gladly repeat it. Don't do that; when I am angry I'm stiffer than ever. If you don’t want to flirt with me, at least stop flirting with your friend at the piano—they simply don’t understand that sort of thing here. I thought they understood nothing else!" exclaimed Daisy. " Not in young unmarried women. " " Daisy remarked that this seems far more fitting for young, unmarried women than for older, married ones. "Well," Winterbourne said, "when you deal with locals you must observe their customs." Flirting is a purely American custom; it doesn't exist here. So, when you appear in public with Mr. Giovanelli and without your mother— poor Mother!" interposed Daisy. " Even though you might be flirting, Mr. Giovanelli isn’t; he has a different intention. He isn't preaching, at any rate," said Daisy with vivacity. " If you really want to know, we’re not flirting at all—we’re simply very close friends. Ah!" Winterbourne replied, “If you are in love with each other, then that makes for a separate affair.” She’d let him speak so openly up to that moment that he could not have expected to shock her with those words; yet she rose immediately, flushed visibly, and left him to think in his head that little American flirts are the strangest creatures in the world. At least Mr. Giovanelli never says such disagreeable things to me," she said, flashing him a single glance. Winterbourne was bewildered; he stood, staring. Mr. Giovanelli had finished singing. He left the piano and came over to Daisy. " Won't you come into the other room and have some tea?" he asked, bending before her with his ornamental smile. Daisy turned to Winterbourne, beginning to smile again. He was even more perplexed, for that inconsequential smile revealed nothing, though it seemed to confirm that she possessed a sweetness and softness that instinctively turned toward forgiving offenses. “Mr. Winterbourne had never thought to offer me a cup of tea,” she said, her tone teasing. I have offered you advice," Winterbourne rejoined. " I prefer weak tea!" cried Daisy, and she went off with the brilliant Giovanelli. She sat beside him in the adjoining room, tucked into the window’s recess, for the remainder of the evening. An engaging piano recital took place, yet neither of the young people paid it any attention. When Daisy came to bid farewell to Mrs. Walker, the lady conscientiously corrected the weakness she had displayed upon the girl’s arrival. She turned her back straight toward Miss Miller and let her depart, hoping she might do so with as much grace as she could. Winterbourne was standing near the door; he saw it all. Daisy turned very pale and glanced at her mother, yet Mrs. Miller appeared unaware of any breach of customary social propriety. She genuinely seemed to feel an odd urge to draw attention to her own keen observation of them. Good night, Mrs. Walker," she said; "we've had a beautiful evening. If I let Daisy attend parties without me, I don’t want her to leave without me. Daisy turned away, her face pallid and solemn as she stared at the circle near the door, and for a brief instant Winterbourne saw that she was stunned and puzzled—more than simply indignant. He on his side was greatly touched. " That was very cruel," he said to Mrs. Walker. " She never enters my drawing room again!" replied his hostess. Deprived of the chance to see her in Mrs. Walker’s drawing room, Winterbourne slipped into Mrs. Miller’s hotel as often as he could. The ladies seldom lingered at home, yet whenever he ran into them Giovanelli—ever devoted—was always there. In many instances, the brilliant little Roman—Daisy—was alone in the drawing room, while Mrs. Miller consistently maintained that discretion was preferable to surveillance. Winterbourne first surprised himself at how unbothered Daisy was by his arrival, but soon came to realize that she offered no more surprises, leaving only the unpredictable nature of her conduct as what he could anticipate. She showed no displeasure when interrupted during her tête‑a‑tête with Giovanelli, chatting as freely and readily with two men as she did with one, and her conversation always mixed audacity and puerility. Winterbourne mused that if Daisy was truly interested in Giovanelli, it was rather odd that she didn’t go to greater lengths to safeguard the dignity of their meetings; he only found her more endearing by her seemingly indifferent, yet boundless, good humor. He may not have known the reason, but to him she seemed like a girl who would never feel jealous. With the risk of provoking a mildly derisive smile from the reader, I may state that, with respect to the women who had previously caught his interest, it often seemed to Winterbourne that, under certain contingencies, he might quite literally be afraid of them; yet he was assured that he would never feel that fear toward Daisy Miller. It should be added that this sentiment was hardly flattering toward Daisy, as it reflected his conviction—or, more accurately, his apprehension—that she would turn out to be an exceedingly frivolous young woman. But she was evidently very much interested in Giovanelli. Whenever he spoke, she fixed her gaze on him, relentlessly directing his actions, and he was constantly subjected to her scolding and harassment. She appeared to have completely forgotten that Winterbourne had said anything to displease her at Mrs. Walker’s little party. After a Sunday visit to St. Peter’s with his aunt, Winterbourne watched Daisy sauntering through the great church, accompanied by the inevitable Giovanelli. Presently he pointed out the young girl and her cavalier to Mrs. Costello. The lady glanced at them for a moment through her glasses, then said, “That’s what makes you so pensive these days, huh?” I had not the least idea I was pensive," said the young man. " You are very much preoccupied; you are thinking of something. " " And what is it," he asked, "that you accuse me of thinking of?" " What is the young lady’s name—Miss Baker, Miss Chandler, or Miss Miller—whose intrigue revolves around that little barber’s block? Do you call it an intrigue? Winterbourne asked—“an affair that goes on with such peculiar publicity?” That's their folly," said Mrs. Costello; "it's not their merit. " " "No," Winterbourne replied, his answer tinged with the same pensiveness his aunt had alluded to. I don't believe that there is anything to be called an intrigue. " " “I’ve heard dozens of people talking about it, and they say she’s completely enchanted by him.” They are certainly very intimate," said Winterbourne. Mrs. Costello inspected the young couple again with her optical instrument. " He is very handsome. One easily sees how it is. She thinks him the most elegant man in the world, the finest gentleman. She has never seen anything like him; he is better, even, than the courier. It was likely the courier who first introduced them; if he is ultimately successful in marrying the young lady, the courier will be rewarded with a sizable commission. "I don't think she ever considers marrying him, and I don't believe he has any hope of marrying her," said Winterbourne. You may be very sure she thinks of nothing. She moves onward, day after day, hour by hour, just like they did in the Golden Age. I can imagine nothing more vulgar. And at the same time," added Mrs. Costello, "depend upon it that she may tell you any moment that she is 'engaged.' | " "You will kill her; she passed a dreadful night. " " She will not die from a single dreadful night, nor from a dozen. Keep in mind that I am a distinguished physician. Mrs. Penniman hesitated a moment. Then she risked her retort. " Even as a distinguished physician, you have already lost two members of your family. She had taken the risk, but her brother’s glance—so sharply penetrating, like a surgeon’s lancet—made her frightened by her own courage. He replied, his words echoing the look in his eyes: “Even so, it may not keep me from losing yet another colleague.” Mrs. Penniman left, trying to keep whatever dignity she could, and made her way to Catherine’s room, where the poor girl was hidden away. She was fully aware of her dreadful night, for the two of them had met again the previous evening after Catherine had left her father. While standing on the second‑floor landing, Mrs. Penniman noticed her niece climb upstairs. It was no surprise that someone of such subtlety would discover Catherine had been locked up with the Doctor. It was still no greater marvel that she had felt an intense curiosity to learn the outcome of this interview, and that this curiosity, coupled with her generous amiability, had prompted her to regret the sharp words exchanged so recently with her niece. When the sorrowful girl emerged into the dim corridor, she offered an eager, sympathetic gesture. Catherine's bursting heart was equally oblivious. All she could say was that her aunt had taken her into her arms. Mrs. Penniman ushered her into Catherine’s room, and the two sat together until the early hours, the younger with her head on the elder’s lap, sobbing quietly at first, then finally falling still. Mrs. Penniman felt satisfied upon realizing that this scene had effectively lifted the ban Catherine had imposed on their further communication with Morris Townsend. She was not gratified, however, when she returned to her niece’s room before breakfast and discovered that Catherine had risen and was preparing herself for the meal. “You shouldn’t head to breakfast,” she warned; “you’re still unwell after the scary night.” “Yes, I’m doing well—my only worry is that I might be late.” I can't understand you!" Mrs. Penniman cried. " You should remain in bed for three days. Oh, I could never do that!" Catherine replied that the idea offered her no attraction. Mrs. Penniman, gripped by despair, observed with fierce annoyance that the last night's tears had entirely disappeared from Catherine’s eyes. She had a most impracticable physique. " "What effect do you expect to have on your father?" her aunt demanded, "if you come home flat‑out, devoid of feeling, as though nothing had happened?" He didn’t want me to stay in bed," Catherine said simply. This gives even more reason for you to do it. How else do you suppose you will move him? Catherine thought a little. " I’m not sure how, but it isn’t in that manner. I wish to be just as usual." She finished dressing, and, judging by her aunt’s expression, she went cheerfully into her father’s presence. She was really too modest for consistent pathos. Yet it was an undeniable fact that she had endured a dreadful night. After Mrs. Penniman left, Catherine found she couldn’t sleep. She lay staring into the bleak gloom, her senses flooded by the memory of her father’s abrupt banishment of her from his room and the cruel words he hurled, calling her a heartless daughter. Her heart was breaking. She had heart enough for that. Sometimes she felt as though she believed him, and that to act as she was doing, a girl had to be truly bad. She was bad; but she couldn't help it. She would still strive to seem virtuous even when her heart was twisted, periodically fantasizing that clever social gestures could disguise her true feelings, yet she remained steadfast in her devotion to Morris. Catherine’s ingenuities were undefined, and we are not asked to reveal their hollowness. What stood out most was her strikingly fresh appearance—a look that surprised Mrs. Penniman, who was astonished to see no trace of weariness in a young woman who had spent an entire night trembling beneath her father's curse. Catherine, conscious of her freshness, felt that the anticipation of the future only added weight to her mind. It appeared to be proof of her strength, solidity, and endurance, implying that she would live to an unusually great age—longer than was generally convenient. That notion was depressing, because it seemed to burden her with a pretension that clashed with her desire to do what was right. That day she sent Morris Townsend a brief note inviting him to visit the next morning, offering no explanation beyond the request. She would explain everything face to face. The next afternoon, she heard his voice at the door and the echo of his footsteps in the hall. She welcomed him into the large, brightly lit front parlour and told the servant that she was wholly occupied should anyone call. She wasn’t afraid of her father’s arrival, because at that hour he was always driving around town. When Morris stood before her, the first thing she noticed was that he looked even more beautiful than she had remembered, and the next was that he had pressed her into his arms. Once she was free again, she felt as though she had truly sunk into the gulf of defiance, even if only for a moment she sensed she had already become married to him. He said that her cruelty had left him deeply unhappy, and Catherine felt the heavy pull of her destiny, seeing herself forced to endure suffering in disparate realms. Yet she wished that, rather than even the gentlest reproach, he would offer her help; after all, he was certainly both wise and clever enough to devise a solution to their troubles. She expressed this belief, and Morris accepted her assurance, but at first he interrogated it—naturally—before committing to a course. "You shouldn't have made me wait this long," he said. I can’t tell how I’ve been surviving; each hour feels like an entire year. You should have decided sooner. " " Decided?" Catherine asked. " Decide whether you'll keep me or let me go. “Oh, Morris,” she cried, her voice long and tender, “I never thought of giving you up!” What, then, were you waiting for?" The young man was ardently logical. " I considered that my father might—might—, and she paused in uncertainty. Might see how unhappy you were?" " Oh no! He might view it differently. And now you have summoned me to tell you that, at last, he does so. Is that it?" That spurious optimism struck a pang into the poor girl. "No, Morris," she said gravely, "he still views it in the same way." Then why have you sent for me?" " Because I wanted to see you!" cried Catherine piteously. " That's an excellent reason, surely. But did you simply want to look at me? Have you nothing to tell me?" His striking, persuasive eyes fixed on her face, and she wondered what reply would be noble enough to meet such a gaze. For a moment she absorbed it with her eyes, then—“I did want to look at you!”—she said. she said gently. After the speech, she unexpectedly covered her face. Morris watched her for a moment, attentively. " Will you marry me to-morrow?" he asked suddenly. " To-morrow?" " Next week, then. Any time within a month. " " Isn't it better to wait?" said Catherine. " To wait for what?" She barely understood the reason, but the tremendous leap alarmed her. Let’s think it over a little longer. He shook his head, sadly and reproachfully. " I had assumed you had been pondering it over the past three weeks. Do you intend to mull it over for the next five years? You have given me more than time enough. "My poor girl," he added, "you’re not sincere!" Catherine flushed from brow to chin, and tears welled in her eyes. Oh, how can you say that?" she murmured. | 0.8 | Young women -- Fiction | James, Henry | James, Henry | 208 | 2870 | James, Henry_[Daisy Miller: A Study]_1500_12_0.5 | James, Henry_[Meleager : $b A fantasy]_1500_24_0.6 |
You are going to you know not what, my child," he went on; "you are going into a strange world, where there are strange fashions, strange creeds, strange ideas of morality. Phemie, keep yourself upright; remember what I have taught you, what your grandfather taught you, and that this world and its fashions and pleasures are fleeting. I will try to be good, uncle. " " You will have servants under you," he continued. " Don't be hard with them, Phemie; don't be thoughtless. Remember that there are souls to be saved just as there are yours. You have beauty. The article you will encounter here is highly prized. Don't be too vain of it. Remember that God has given you this as a gift—one to be valued, not mistreated. Never forget that, unless it is paired with something better, it is only a doubtful good—a gloss, a glass, a flower that is lost, faded, broken, and dead within an hour. When you amass wealth, keep your humility intact—as the sage Cleobulus so succinctly reminds us. Solomon reminds us that riches are fleeting and that we will be held accountable for how we use them while we have them. I would have you emulate those great souls who, touched with divine warmth, value gold beyond its price and teach its virtues to shine. For them, all the pleasures they hoard are prized, and they do not consider their wealth truly theirs until it is well bestowed. Entering a realm so novel and strange that the old counsel and teachings appear utterly irrelevant. Mr. Aggland, his heart hanging heavy, pressed his hand onto Phemie’s shoulder as he finished speaking. I will try to remember," she said. " "I would have you strive in youth to save your age from care," continued her uncle. I urge you to keep every Christian grace and every womanly virtue. I would not wish to see you become a woman enamoured with fleeting fashions. At first, do not be overly confident; instead proceed cautiously, as one would on a lonely road, walking in fear and dread. Still, I would not want you to be excessively fearful or cowardly, for I know that what starts in fear often culminates in folly. Phemie, I ask that you strike a balance—navigating wisely between bigotry and irreligion, virtue and prudery, hard work and idleness, and confidence and presumption. "I wish I had never had to go away, uncle," she replied to the string of advice. "If you had not had to go away, I wouldn't have had to warn you," he answered. And so I bid you farewell, Phemie—please remember me, however you can. He bade farewell to the girl he loved as if she were his own daughter, to the one stepping into an untested, uncertain journey. Should tears fall into his eyes or his voice quiver, I hope those reading these pages will not see him as any less of a man. When she saw Phemie in distress, she bravely set her own troubles aside. She would not cry, nor would she hide the truth she was sure of: she could never forget him or the Hill Farm. Taking his hand, she kissed it before he could stop her, and whispered, “The mother may forget the child who smiles so sweetly on her knee, but I will remember you, Glencairn, and all you’ve done for me.” And then she broke down, threw herself into his arms, and lay sobbing until Helen arrived to remind her that time was slipping away and that trains wait for no one. Rewritten sentence
“You must go now, Phemie,” her uncle said; “do not think I am unkind for hurrying you away—I have grieved a heart so much that a drawn‑out farewell would be too tedious.” There now. “Let’s not unsettle each other,” he gently pushed her back from him. And now for my last words. Remember that you are only an unschooled, unpracticed girl. Be content here—you’re still young enough to learn. Be a devoted wife to the man who has chosen you—and whom you have chosen in return. Treat him kindly and never harm him throughout all your days. Now, Phemie, now—now, he cried, pulling her from his arms once again and urging her to say any last goodbyes, for it was high time they set off for Carlisle. Phemie assured everyone that, “I shall return again.” I shall come back again, Duncan. I will indeed, Helen. Be sure I won't stay long away, Peggy. " But Peggy M'Nab refused to be comforted. After the happy pair drove away, she slipped into the kitchen, wrapped her apron over her head, and sobbed loudly. Don't cry, Peggy!—don't, don't!" Helen, tears streaming down her cheeks, exclaimed, “Don’t cry—she will come back to us, as you heard her say she would.” Alike, Miss Helen," answered Peggy from behind her curtain of blue checks. "The child I carried in my arms—the one I nursed in my lap—I have not seen in many a year, unless perhaps in an odd dream; and your cousin Phemie, who has just gone away, neither you nor I shall ever see again until our death day. Because of that reassurance, Helen raised her voice and wept aloud, not understanding the true weight of the hard truth hidden in Peggy’s lament. And if she had, would she have wept the less? Would she have ceased lamenting? Would any solace be found in the thought that another Phemie could return, if only the one who once danced across the heather, lingered beside Strammer Tarn, and tended every household chore—ever joyous and ever sorrowful—could never again step back onto the Hill Farm, into its calm valley or its rugged mountains, beside the murmuring waterfall, no longer? DISAPPOINTED. Montague Stondon, Esquire, barrister‑at‑law and heir presumptive to Marshlands—whether fifteenth, twentieth, thirtieth, or some other distant cousin of the man who had just taken a wife—lived in a house on Chapel Street, Grosvenor Place, whose front faced a cheerful view of the other side of the road and whose rear opened onto Tattersall’s and St. George’s Hospital. The house was neither large nor convenient, and it was far too expensive for Mr. Stondon’s means. Yet it was sufficiently genteel, within five minutes of the Row, close to Green Park, adjoined Belgrave Square, and in every way suited the barrister better than any other home could for a man overwhelmed by debt and a taste for millionaire comforts. If you’re not invited to a banquet, I can’t fathom the exact pleasure that arises from watching others enjoy it. If you cannot afford to visit the Duke, I can’t understand why you would pay extravagant rent simply to live near him or watch his carriage pass your door; yet Montague Stondon felt a sense of satisfaction in dwelling near nobility, believing their footmen, entourages, crests, and coats of arms conferred upon him a certain importance. The earth would not be a cheerful place if it lay beyond the sun’s rays, and Montague Stondon believed that the sun rose only over Belgrave Square and the other regions governed by England’s nobility and gentry. When he rode out on his hired horse, he immediately found himself among the ranks and fashions; he could boast his fine whiskers in the park, air them there, while gnawing at the riding‑whip’s handle, and wonder how he would manage this for another year or two. When Mrs. Stondon, a faded fashionable woman, who had brought her husband some fortune, "received," she liked to think that the carriages of her visitors and the carriages of the great people hard by touched wheels in the street. | Her silence had its effect, however, for he said next moment— "I beg your pardon; of course I was not thinking of you, but of my wife. " " “Say whatever you wish to me,” Phemie replied, “but spare your wife.” She has already endured so much; her illness is very severe. In reply to her request, Basil muttered under his breath that she could feign illness whenever it suited her, exploiting doctors just as she had once done with him. "She isn't faking it now, at least," Phemie replied, and Basil continued on his walk. Is he badly wounded? After a pause, he resumed speaking. I'm afraid that’s the case. Is he in peril? He is." " Was he insensible?" " Yes, he had not spoken when I left. What led you to leave him? Why couldn’t you have sent a servant? Since I knew that everything possible for him had already been done, I wanted you to head back to Marshlands immediately. I had intended to send a telegraph, but Georgina refused to hear it, so I set off to locate you as soon as possible. "You’ve been traveling all night, haven’t you?" Yes, I arrived here at nine o’clock this morning. "You're probably tired," he said, moving closer to her and looking straight into her eyes. If traveling for a whole year could prove useful to you or anyone in your circle, Basil, I wouldn't mind feeling tired. She exclaimed, tears streaming down her face, as she realized that nothing she could possibly do would be of any use now—whether to him or to himself. After a brief silence, he pressed his hand to hers and, piteously, said, “What a fool I was, Phemie—oh, what a fool!” “Don’t be one now, Basil,” she said, pulling her hand from his and stepping back a pace. At what time does the train depart? She asked, and the question pulled Basil back to his senses. "We don't have much time left," he said; "the train leaves at one o'clock." If we catch that train, we’ll be able to take a special one once we reach the main line. How do you plan to get to the station? How did you arrive here? "I walked," she replied, "but Mrs. Urkirs has arranged for one of her men to drive me back, I know." They agreed to depart at once, and while Basil went to arrange the horse, Phemie consulted Mrs. Urkirs and, with her help, prepared herself for the journey. All the arrangements had been made for their departure: Mrs. Stondon, fully wrapped, was seated in Mr. Urkirs’ light cart; Basil had mounted, and the boy he intended to put in charge of his horse to Goresby had taken his place behind Phemie and the driver. The former stooped over the wheel and whispered to Mrs. Stondon—who had come out to ensure that the rug was positioned so her visitor’s dress would not be splashed—“The child is dead, and I want to break it to him gently as we go home.” “I’d rather she hear the breaking herself than me,” Mr. Goresby remarked when, an hour later, Mrs. Urkirs relayed the information she’d learned to him. Mr. Goresby, a robust middle‑aged squire of the no‑nonsense sort, felt deeply sorry upon hearing of his friend’s misfortune. Was Mrs. Stondon, in fact, a young woman? He asked, standing beside the farmhouse, his arm threaded through the horse’s bridle as his foot turned a loose stone while he spoke. I would estimate him to be over thirty, sir. She looked tall and stately, proud at first—but once you spoke to her, she was just as pleasant and homely as you. She sat in that corner by the fire, weeping as she spoke of the child as if it were her own. It was a marvel that she had travelled all this way alone; only a handful of ladies, I think, would have taken on such a journey. "You’re right there, Mrs. Urkirs," the squire replied, mounting his hack and riding leisurely back to Goresby Manor, wondering whether Phemie was that former lover he'd once heard the mistress of Marshlands mock her husband about. “I suppose every man’s misfortune stems from a woman—if only we could dig deep enough,” mused Mr. Goresby, a bachelor whose curiosity about Basil Stondon’s former loves had always been piqued, noting that these affairs seemed to have twisted the man’s life into wrongness. THE RETURN. While Mr. Goresby trotted back to the manor across the Yorkshire moors, Phemie and her companion rode southward at a speed rivaling that of a train that halted at every station yet kept no timetable. They had the compartment to themselves, and every five minutes Phemie glanced at her watch, muttered to herself, “In a quarter of an hour I’ll have told him,” but even when that quarter passed, Basil still believed his child was alive. He spoke without pause, mentioning Harry and his wife, letting the entire sordid saga of their wretched plight spill from his lips, sentence after sentence. He remarked that Marshlands was exactly what she had longed for, and that it had already been seized by her; he accused her of thwarting every one of his wishes, insisting that the mere proclamation of a desire would be immediately met by her opposition. When it came to her children, she cared for none—not a touch—and she cared for me in the same indifference. Provide her with money, a dress, equipment, and servants, and she will be content even if she never sees me again. She shall now have her wish fulfilled; may she choose to dwell in London or any other place she prefers, thereby leaving me and the children to rest in quiet peace at Marshlands. The children!" He pulled away abruptly. Oh! Phemie, do you expect Harry to recover? “I’m afraid there is no hope,” she answered, trying to steady her voice. "She must not let me see her if anything happens to him," he said with granite determination, then pressed his companion to ask whether they would arrive on time, and shortly after bellowed in fury over the slowness of the trains, the mistake of failing to send a telegram instead of coming, the certainty that Georgina's plans would inevitably falter, and his conviction that if Phemie had stayed at Marshlands, far more could have been done for the boy. Who stayed up with him last night? He went on, asking, "Who would attend to everything that the doctor directed?" The notion of abandoning the place with only servants—especially under these circumstances, when Georgina could do nothing to see to things—felt utterly absurd. I truly believe she's mad. Phemie remarked, “I have summoned my uncle.” He remarked, “That is something she would never have imagined.” Phemie slipped back into her corner, realizing she could not tell him the worst—that he was impractical and selfish beyond her imagination, and that his affection for their child was merely an echo of his own self‑love. What benefit had her arrival truly brought, then? Had it achieved any of the things for which Georgina had prayed? They would speak, yet a quarrel would follow—perhaps even a separation, the outcome Basil evidently wanted to bring about. Never before had Phemie felt herself more powerless than with this man—who had once professed his love for her—and it was for him—oh! Heaven, it was for one like this—she had shattered her husband's heart and nearly sullied an honest man's reputation. "How I loved him—God of mercy, how I loved him," she murmured, as her companion rapped on his complaints; the memories of a past filled with misery, the looming trial ahead, and the stark contrast between his thoughts and hers broke her composure, and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed like a child. In an instant Basil ceased his lamentations; the very tone of his voice changed as he asked her what was the matter—what he had said to vex her—why she was weeping. | 0.6 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan | 71357 | 71359 | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan_[Papuan Pictures]_1500_30_0.7 | Riddell, Charlotte Eliza Lawson Cowan_[A Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 4]_1500_23_0.9 |
Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have the power to stir her. She wondered whether, as he sat in the bare whitewashed café strumming to the gathered Negroes, Greeks, and Arabs by the window, Harry had ever imagined that even a thin, feeble echo of his melody might reach across the world. She realised with absolute certainty that, no matter how much she might pretend to have forgotten Harry Feversham, the act would always be nothing more than a mere pretense. Her mind kept the image of the illuminated café in the desert town close by, but she was resolute that it should not ease the effort she made to pretend she had forgotten. Knowing that she had once treated Harry unfairly only strengthened her resolve that Durrance should not suffer for any of her faults. At Hill Street last year, I told you, Ethne, that I never wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance lay solely with him; I had none. When he realized he had called my name, he tried to edge back into the crowd and begin speaking Greek, but I seized his arm and wouldn’t let him go. He had done you some great wrong. That I know; that I knew. But I could not remember it then. I only remembered that many years earlier Harry Feversham had been my one great friend; we had rowed together in the same Oxford college boat, with him at stroke and me in seat seven; the stripes across his jersey during three consecutive eight‑man races had left my eyes dizzy as we sprinted past the barges in the final hundred yards. We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons. We ate supper on Kennington Island, then cut our lectures and paddled up the Cher to Islip. There he was in Wadi Halfa, drifting with the troupe—an outcast mired in hard luck—forced to descend into that squalid town to perform his zither poorly before a crowd of natives and a few Greek clerks, just to secure a night's lodging and a meal. No," Ethne interrupted suddenly. " It wasn’t that motive that led him to Wadi Halfa. Why, then?" asked Durrance. " I cannot think. But he was not in any need of money. His father continued to give him an allowance, and he accepted it. You are sure?" " Quite sure. I heard it only to-day," said Ethne. It was a blunder, yet for the first time that evening Ethne let her guard down. She did not even notice that she had made a slip. She was too engrossed in Durrance's story. Durrance himself, though preoccupied, failed to notice the remark, so it went unobserved by either. So you never knew what brought Mr. Feversham to Halfa?" she asked. " Did you not ask him? Why didn't you? Why?" She was disappointed, and the bitterness that settled in her made her cry more passionately. The last news about Harry Feversham arrived to her incomplete, as if it were only half a letter. The omission might never be repaired. " I was a fool," said Durrance. His voice carried almost the same depth of regret as hers, and because of that sorrow he withheld echoing the passion with which she had spoken. I shall not easily forgive myself. He was my friend, you see. I had him by the arm, and I let him go. I was a fool." And he knocked upon his forehead with his fist. " He tried speaking Arabic,” Durrance resumed, “asserting that he and his companions were simply poor, peaceful people, and that if I had given them too much money I should take it back— all the while he was being dragged away from me.” But I held him fast. I said, “Harry Feversham, that won’t do,” and he relented, speaking the words in a low, hushed English. Let me go, Jack, let me go.' There was the crowd about us. It was clear that Harry had something to hide; perhaps it was shame at his downfall, at least from my perspective. I told him, "Come to my quarters in Halfa whenever you’re free," and then let him go. I spent the entire night on the verandah awaiting his arrival, but he never came. In the morning I had to start across the desert. “I nearly mentioned him to a friend who came to watch me leave, to Calder, in fact—you know of him—the very man who sent you the telegram,” quipped Durrance, laughing. Yes, I remember," Ethne answered. It was the second slip she had made that night. Receiving Calder's telegram marked just one of the pieces of information from which Durrance was deliberately kept in the dark. Yet she remained unaware that she had slipped. She hadn’t even pondered how Durrance might have learned or guessed that the telegram had ever been sent. At the very last moment," Durrance resumed, "when my camel had risen from the ground, I bent down to speak with him, urging him to look after Feversham. But I did not. You see I knew nothing about his allowance. I merely thought that he had fallen rather low. It felt unjust to him that someone else knew about it. So I rode on and kept silence. " Ethne nodded her head. She couldn't help but approve, though her regret for the lost news was profoundly poignant. So you never saw Mr. Feversham again?" " I was away nine weeks. "I came back blind," he replied simply, and the plainness of his words pierced Ethne's heart. He apologized for his blindness, which had prevented him from inquiring. She realized she was truly hearing Durrance, yet he persisted in speaking, and his words pulled her completely out of caution. I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him about Harry Feversham, noting that I’d seen him in Tewfikieh. When Calder returned to Halfa, I asked him to investigate Harry Feversham—locating him, helping him if possible—and to keep me informed of what he uncovered. I received a letter from Calder last week, and it has left me deeply troubled. What did he say?" Ethne asked apprehensively, turning her chair from the moonlit glow toward the shadows of the room and Durrance. She leaned in to catch a glimpse of his face, but the darkness swallowed it. A sudden terror surged within her, numbing her veins, yet from the shadows Durrance spoke. Those two women and the old Greek had sailed north on a steamer bound for Assuan. Mr. Feversham remained at Wadi Halfa, then? That is so, isn't it?" she said eagerly. " No," Durrance replied. " Harry Feversham did not remain. He slipped past Halfa the day after I started toward the east. He went out in the morning, and to the south. " " Into the desert?" " Yes, but the desert to the south, the enemy's country. He went just as I saw him, carrying his zither. He was seen. There can be no doubt. " Ethne was quite silent for a little while. Then she asked:— "You have that letter with you?" " Yes." " I should like to read it. " She rose from her chair and walked across to Durrance. He slid the paper from his pocket into her hands, and she carried it toward the window. The moonlight was strong. Ethne stood by the window, hand pressed to her heart, and read the letter again and again. The letter was explicit: the Greek owner of the café where the troupe had performed admitted that Joseppi, the name he used for Feversham, had gone south carrying a water‑skin and a crate of dates, though his reason for doing so was either unknown to him or he would not disclose it. Although Ethne had a question in mind, it took some time before she felt her lips could speak it clearly and confidently. What will happen to him?" " At the best, capture; at the worst, death. Death by starvation, or thirst, or at the hands of the Dervishes. Only hope remains that if he is seized, it will be limited to capture and imprisonment. You see he was white. If caught, his captors might think him a spy; they would be sure he had knowledge of our plans and our strength. | I had recalled his great politeness of manner. I noted his face, which nearly conveyed a girlish delicacy. I realized that a man was in great haste to travel the same road as I, and I remembered the trick he had tried to use to outwit me and seize my horse. Even at that point, I had nearly fallen into the trap. "If Lieutenant Clutterbuck had not once explained it to me on that particular occasion, I would have certainly done so." As I lay on the bed, candlelight flickering over my game of picquet, the occasion flooded back to me vividly, and I wondered whether I could give Mr Featherstone another name. He said, “I am afraid that this is a capote,” as I played my last card. “Still, the loss feels trivial,” I remarked, “and my horse remains with me.” Very true," said he, whistling softly between his teeth. " “You’ve kept your horse,” he remarked; after wishing him good‑night, he added, “make sure you shut the door behind you, will you?” Before he could finish his words, a violent shudder seized him, leaving him stumbling to utter the sentence’s end. These infernal fevers," said he, with a groan. " “I noticed, however, that they were intermittent,” I replied, and, latching the door as he requested, I went off to my own room. I couldn’t help wondering what trick the fire was supposed to aid, for until the very last spike of his ague struck, he had shown no sign of illness after he drew his cards. Yet, a more pressing question gnawed at my thoughts. It was clear to me that Mr Featherstone was Cullen Mayle, and that he was hurrying as fast as he could to the Scillies, having received no reply to the message he had sent through the Negro. Should I tell him about the men who were keeping watch for his arrival, as one does with watches at sea? Their presence, which signalled danger to Cullen Mayle, could hardly mean anything else; and because it represented a threat, he should be warned. On the other hand, the watchers might have grown weary of their duty and abandoned it as futile. Moreover, I was entirely unsure how to regard Cullen himself. Was his return to Tresco an event to be welcomed or condemned? Did he arrive as a friend to the distracted girl, all alone in the deserted house by the sand? I could not answer these questions. I knew Cullen was a knave, and I knew that the girl cared for him; together, those two facts constituted the entirety of my knowledge. I lay half‑twisted in bed and slipped into sleep, hoping my path would be clear by sunrise. And in the morning it was clear. I woke up with a mind made up. I had a horse, and Cullen was traveling on foot; having walked so far, it was unlikely he could afford a new horse, and I entirely dismissed the tale of his stumble and broken leg as far from credible. Yesterday, I travelled along that road and saw no disabled horse. I had therefore the advantage of Cullen. I would continue on, keeping my destination a secret from him. Upon arrival, I intended to consult Dick Parmiter and Helen Mayle and work to unravel the problem. I still had time to reach the mainland and stop Cullen from attempting the crossing. I intended to execute the plan, but it was never put into action. As I was still getting dressed, a loud commotion and confusion filled the house. I opened my door. The noise came from the direction of Cullen's room. I hurriedly slipped into my coat and darted down the corridor. I could hear Cullen’s voice louder than everyone else—a woman or two shouting with shrill indignation, and the landlord trying to smooth things over, though I couldn’t tell what the fuss was about. The whole household had seemed to have assembled in the room, even though Mr. Featherstone was still lying in bed. The moment that I appeared in the doorway, "Ah! here's a witness," he cried. " Mr. Berkeley, you were the last to leave me last night. You closed the door behind you? I was particular to ask you to close the door?" " "I remember that very well," I said, "for how on earth could you put up with a closed door and a blazing fire?" There!" cried Featherstone turning to the landlord. " You hear? Mr. Berkeley is a gentleman beyond reproach. He had closed the door behind him, yet this morning I found it wide open and my breeches gone. A thief has been found in your inn, sir, and we travelers must press on our journey without our breeches. This is the most thoughtless theft I have ever heard of. As for the breeches, sir," began the landlord. " I don't care a button for them," cried Featherstone. " But there was money in the breeches' pockets. There were fifteen guineas in gold, along with a pair of banknotes addressed to Mr. Nossiter, the banker at Exeter. The bills can be stopped," said the landlord. " We are but eighteen miles from Exeter. " " Yet how shall I cover those miles? Do you expect me to walk them in my shirt‑tails? No, I will stay in bed until my breeches are found, and if I don’t consume everything in the house, burn me. “I’ll get chops right away, a hearty sirloin of beef, and have a tankard of small ale brought to me.” Then he turned to me again, speaking pitifully, “It is not the breeches that trouble me, though I know I will be a ridiculous figure on the high road; nor is it the money, for I have no coin left.” I awoke this morning in the sweetest good humor, but by nine a.m. I was engulfed in a violent passion that spoiled my entire day. "It was utterly disheartening," he murmured, lying back on the pillow as if tears were about to spill. The landlord offered him his Sunday breeches. They were made from red cloth, and even a dashing earl could wear them without embarrassment. Not without some discomfort," grumbled Mr. Featherstone, eyeing the stout landlord. They will drape around me in strips, like a petticoat. "As for the fifteen guineas," I said, "that sum is at your disposal." “Your offer is most gentlemanly, Mr. Berkeley,” he remarked, “from one stranger to another.” But I have a horror of borrowing. I cannot accept your munificence. No, I will walk in my host’s red‑cloth breeches as far as Rockbere – a distance of no more than twelve miles – wholly penniless; but when I reach my friends, upon my word, I will make such a noise about this inn as to shut its doors, even to strike me dead and stiff if need be. His threat had its effect. After he reiterated that such an incident had never previously happened, that he’d searched the entire house down to the servants’ boxes, and that he could make neither head nor tail of the mystery, the landlord finished his rant with an offer of five guineas. “All that I own in this house, sir,” he replied, “is exactly what I have, and I shall not charge you for either food or lodging.” Of course not," said Mr. Featherstone indignantly. " Well, I must make the best of it, but oh! I woke with an exceptionally cheerful disposition toward the world, brushing off the women as I rose and dressed. The landlord retrieved the five guineas and his red‑cloth breeches, which Featherstone soon pulled on. Was ever a man so vilely travestied?" he said. " Sure, I shall be taken for a Hollander. “That would be hard for someone of refined taste,” he muttered, tying his cravat before grumbling out of the room. "It is a great misfortune for me, sir," declared my host. I have lived honest all my days. No one in the house would steal, and I would stake my life on that. I can make nothing of it. " " Mr. Featherstone is quite recovered from his ague," said I slowly. I crossed over to the empty fireplace heaped with the white ashes of the logs which had blazed there the night before. | 0.8 | Adventure stories | Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley) | Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley) | 18883 | 38693 | Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)_[The Four Feathers]_1500_39_0.4 | Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)_[The Watchers: A Novel]_1500_11_0.6 |
Some merry wag or other scoops out a ripe pumpkin, carves eyes and a mouth in it, sticks a burning light inside, and hangs it up by way of a lantern, and the girls shriek and pretend to be terribly frightened. Then the more handy lads, sitting on over-turned bread-baskets, plait long wreaths out of the maize-husks; and while the tranquil toil proceeds, merry songs are sung and fairy tales are told of golden-haired princesses and persecuted orphans. Now and again the fun requires a kiss or two to keep it going, and loud screams proclaim the daring deed to all the world. The little children cry out for joy if they chance to find an occasional scarlet or mottled maize knob among so many yellow ones. They sit together, spinning stories, singing and laughing at the slightest things while all the maize is husked, then wish each other good‑night, linger in wistful chatter and bawls over a lengthy farewell, and finally set out singing on their way home, partly for pleasure and partly in pure light‑heartedness. Then every one enters his house, shuts the door behind him, and puts out the fire; the sheep-dogs hold long dialogues in the village streets; the crescent moon rises; the night watchman begins to cry the hours in long-drawn rhythm; the others sleep and do not hear his golden saws. Only in one window of the manor-house a light is shining. There some one still is up. The watchers are a grey-haired, venerable dame and a much younger serving-maid. The old lady is reading from a worn-out psalter, every line of which she already knows by heart; the serving-maid, as if not content with a long day's work, has sat herself down to her distaff, and draws long threads out of the silky flax which she heckled yesterday and carded to-day. " Go to bed, Clara," said the old woman kindly, "it is enough if I remain up. Besides, you have to rise early to-morrow morning. " " I could not sleep till our mistress has returned," replied the girl, continuing her work. " Even when all the men are in, I always feel so frightened till she has come home, but when once she is here, I feel as safe as if we were behind the walls of a fortress. " " Quite right, my child; she is, indeed, worth many men. Shame upon it that the cares and anxieties which it behoves a man to bear should rest upon her shoulders! She has to look after the whole of this vast household, and, as if that were not enough, she must needs farm the estates of her sisters, the ladies Banfi and Teleki. How many lawsuits must she not carry on with this neighbour and with that! But they've met their match in her, I'll warrant. She appears in person before the judges and pleads so shrewdly, that our best advocates might take lessons from her. And then, too, when my Lord Banfi came capering hither with his killing ways, some little time ago, fancying that our gracious lady was one of your straw-widows, how she sent him away with a flea in his ear! The worthy gentleman did not know whether he stood on his head or his heels, and yet he is one of the chief men in the land! Later, when he had sent us that ruthless captain and his lancer soldiers as a form of retribution, do you recall how our lady had them all driven out of the village—those ruffians fled as soon as they saw her march toward them, blunderbuss in hand? Would that they had not scampered off quite so quickly," interrupted the girl, with a burst of enthusiasm. " I'd have laid the poker about their ears, I warrant you. " " Hark'e, Clara! when a woman has been forced to keep house alone for so long a time, and to defend herself and family by the might of her own arms, she comes at last to feel herself a man all over. That is why our mistress looks as stern as if she had never been a girl. " " But tell me, Aunt Magdalene," returned the girl, drawing her chair nearer, "shall we never see master again?" " Alas! God only knows," replied the old dame, sighing. " How can I tell when the poor fellow will be released from his captivity? I always had a presentiment that it would come to this, and I said so, but no one heeded me. It happened in this wise. In the days when our Prince George of blessed memory, not content with his own land, must needs set out to conquer Poland at the head of the Hungarian chivalry, our good master, Sir Michael, went with him. Oh, how I tried—and our lady too—to keep him back. They were a newly-wedded couple then, and the good gentleman himself had little heart for war—he always preferred to sit at home among his books, his water-mills, and his fruit trees—but honour called him and he went. I begged him to at least take my son Andy with him. God gave me this thought, for otherwise we would never again know of our gracious master; when His Highness, Prince George, saw the Tartar hordes assaulting him, he fled home, leaving his nobles captive in the hands of the heathens, who seized them in fetters and marched them to Tartary. My son Andy, who could do nothing because he was badly wounded in the thigh, was sent home; he reported that Sir Michael was ill and in dreadful confinement, and the Tartars, recognizing the high esteem in which Sir Michael was held by fellow prisoners, treated him as a figure of authority and demanded a ransom so steep that even all his gold reserves could not meet it. Nevertheless our noble lady rejoiced exceedingly when she heard that her husband was still alive, and ran hither and thither and left no stone unturned to raise the money. But neither her kind friends nor her dear relations would lend her anything—no, not on the best security, for no one willingly lends on land in time of war. She sold her treasures: the bridal dower her mother had given her, all the fine silver tableware, jeweled bracelets and gilt gold‑and‑pearl ornaments passed down from her ancestors, her large satin‑trimmed, fur‑embroidered mantle and embroidered mente, her rings, agraffes, hairpins, carbuncle bracelets, orient pearls and diamond ear‑rings—indeed, everything that could be turned into money. Yet even all that came to not one-half of what the Tartar demanded, so what does she do but farm the estates of her sisters, plough up the fallow-lands, and cut down the forests to make way for corn-fields. To find time for more work, she turned night into day. No sort of husbandry whereby money could be made escaped her attention. At one time she laid down clay-pits and dug out quarries, the products of which found customers in the neighbourhood. At another time she bred prize oxen and sold them to the Armenian herdsmen. She visited all the markets in person; carried her wine as far as Poland, her corn to Hermannstadt, her honey, wax, and preserved fruits to Kronstadt—nay, in order to obtain a fair price for her wools, she crossed the border and took them as far as Debreczin. And how frugally she fared all the time! It is true she never stinted her servants in anything, but she seemed to weigh every morsel that went into her own mouth. At harvest time she would have nothing cooked for herself at home for weeks together, so that she might remain in the fields all day. A single piece of bread—far too thin even for a child—and a bowl of spring water were all she ate; yet, Clara, we never saw her in a bad mood, nor did a single tear fall upon the dry loaves she was compelled to consume in loyalty to her husband. Footnote 7: George Rakoczy I., Prince of Transylvania, 1630-1648. ] [ Footnote 8: _Mente._ A fur pelisse. ] " And why was all this?" " I'll tell you, my child. The money which she thus scraped together by toil and frugality, year by year, is regularly sent by Andy to Tartary, in part payment of Sir Michael's ransom. At such times our dear lady grudges herself every morsel she puts into her mouth. | I waited her grace's return with no little apprehension, for, with the exception of the grand duke himself, every one about the palace knew that Zdenko Kochanovszki had been a devoted admirer of the lady before her marriage. Indeed, it was said that her marriage to the rich old duke had sent the youthful Zdenko on his pilgrimage. That all this was unknown to his grace was certain, else the reception accorded to me, whom he believed to be his former boon companion, would not have been so cordial. There would be some sport when the lady returned home. Would she, too, see in me her quondam admirer? What would happen to me if the eyes of a loving woman should prove more keen than those of her husband? What would be the result if she saw through my masquerade? If she should say: "Away with this rogue—he is a deceiver! I know what dwells in the eyes of the true Zdenko, for I have looked into them. These are not Zdenko's eyes. " And again: what would happen if she should believe me to be her one-time lover? and question me as her husband had done: "Do you remember the promise we gave to each other?" And, suppose I should be as lucky in guessing the reply as before! The duke spoke boastfully of his dragoon's victory over the haidemaken before the walls of Berdiczov monastery. The robbers were mowed down like grain, with only the leader and a handful of his men escaping by the slimmest of margins; their field‑gun was seized and the gunner was hung from one of the tallest trees—your honors may imagine how carefully I upheld this claim. I praised the duke's heroism, and listened attentively to his tales about the terrible haidemaken, as if I had never heard of them before. At last, one fine day, the pilgrims returned from Berdiczov; and the joyous sound of women's voices was heard in the palace. Master and man hastened to welcome the fair ones. I alone had no one to greet. I was very curious to see what manner of woman the beautiful Persida might be—she for whose sake the owner of my name had gone out into the wide world. The duke hastened to assist her from the carriage on the arrival of the caravan. She was very graceful—tall, with a pale face, large, dark languishing eyes, full red lips, and coal black hair. When her spouse pressed his moist moustache to her lips, she made a grimace. He was overjoyed at her return. The duke's guests and attendants welcomed the returned duchess, each in their own fashion; the former pressed their lips to her hand; the latter kissed the hem of her robe. I had hoped my first meeting with Her Grace would be held in private, away from the entire household, but the Duke beckoned me from the hall where I had withdrawn and said, “Look here, my love—who is this?” Look at him, and tell me if you recognize the lad?" I was afraid to meet the glance which scrutinized my features—I felt that I should be compelled to blurt out: "I am Baran, gunner of the haidemaken. " " You don't recognize him, do you?" again said the duke. " I knew you wouldn't. Tis our long absent comrade Zdenko Kochanovszki. For one single instant I saw into that woman's soul. At mention of my name, a sudden light leapt into her eyes—a world of passion flamed for one brief instant. Only I had seen it; her husband had not. Her eyes, once shining, went cold again, and with a regal, solemn bow her head acknowledged an old acquaintance, as she extended her slender fingers in a dignified greeting. She did not vouchsafe another glance toward me, but turned toward the duke, laid her hand on his arm, and said with sudden friendliness: "_Comment vous portez-vous, mon petit drole? _" Although her grace took no further notice of me, I saw my way clear for the future. With the return of the duchess the household regulations underwent a complete change. The noisy tipplers received their conge; the nightly carousals came to an end. Quite a different mode of life had been prescribed by the prior of the monastery for the ducal pair, if they wished his blessing to have the desired effect. All fast days were to be strictly observed; they might eat only sparingly of the plainest food—only of those dishes which conduce to strength: snails, frogs, and those vegetables which grow under ground. This sort of diet, as you may guess, was not suited to the palates of the duke's guests. One after another took his departure, until none remained but myself; and I had become indispensable to his grace, because of my ability to amuse him with adventurous tales. Every evening the duchess would send for me to read aloud in a religious book, about saints, until the duke would become sleepy. Her grace continued to treat me with extreme reserve; she never lifted her eyes to mine when she spoke to me, but always kept them lowered, as if she were addressing her remarks to my boots. She appeared to be extraordinarily pious; she would repeat a long prayer before and at the end of every meal. She never called me by name—always "Sir." Indeed, the only time she unbent from her frigid reserve, was, when she patted her husband's fat, bearded cheek, or pulled his moustache, to restore him to a good humor; but these occasions were rare. Before the duke retired for the night, the duchess prepared with her own fair hands his slumber draught, the recipe for which she had received from the prior of Berdiczov monastery. It was composed of all sorts of costly spices—an enumeration of which I may repeat later, should I take up the trade of concocting various potations, the efficacy of which may not be doubted. The chief ingredient of the duke's sleeping potion was hot, red wine; and he was wont to smack his lips and exclaim after he had emptied the glass: "Ah!—my love, that has quite rejuvenated me." He would spring lightly from his armchair like a youthful youth, clasp his wife’s hand, and gallantly lead her to their private chambers, leaving me alone with the pious volume to learn what had happened to St. Genevieve when Attila’s Huns besieged Paris. One evening we were engaged as usual with our instructive reading. The duke and his wife were seated in front of the fire-place; I, as always, occupied a chair at the table on which rested the ponderous "History of the Saints and Martyrs." I had been reading for an hour and more, the tale of Saint Genevieve’s second relief of Paris from famine, when the duke abruptly interrupted, declaring his thirst and demanding that the nightly potion be served to him at once. His wife had prepared the potion for him, but instead of making his way to his chambers as usual, he stayed seated, clasped his hands over his paunch, and moments later his deep snoring once again disrupted the reading. For a few seconds the duchess gazed at him with an expression that mingled loathing, fury and contempt upon her lovely face; then she sprang to her feet, hurried to the table where I sat, and thrust her foot so forcefully that the table—together with the “Saints and Martyrs” volume—tipped over and crashed onto the floor with a loud clang. His grace did not stir; his snores continued with unabated vigor. Before I had recovered from my astonishment at her grace's behavior, she seated herself on my knee and flung her arms around my neck: "So you have come back to me, Zdenko? Tell me, do you still love me?" she asked in a passionate whisper, at the same time making it impossible for me to reply— "Stop!" here interrupted the chair: "I don't quite understand how that could be?" " I do," promptly, and succinctly interposed the prince. " Continue, prisoner, what happened next? " I hardly know how to tell it, your highness. It was like a dream of paradise! I knew that every kiss I received and returned was deceit, robbery, sacrilege; I knew I was cheating the house which sheltered me; the master of the house who fed me; the unknown man whose name I bore—the woman—God—the devil—all—all. | 0.9 | Historical fiction | Jokai, Maurus | Jokai, Maurus | 37339 | 34770 | Jokai, Maurus_['Midst the Wild Carpathians]_1500_6_0.1 | Jokai, Maurus_[Told by the death's head : $b a romantic tale]_1500_20_0.1 |
" "I reckon you don't know much about it—haven't any plans?" "No, I haven't. Everything depends on the moment. He will know why I'm here, and whether he is glad or sorry or displeased at my coming, I shall know instantly. I shall then have my cue. It's absurd, this notion of his, and why let it rule him and me! I've always got what I wanted, and I'm going to get Geoffrey. A Queen of a Nation must propose to a suitor, so why not a Queen of Money to a man less rich than she—especially when she is convinced that that alone keeps them apart. I shall give him a chance to propose to me first; several chances, indeed!" she laughed. "Then, if he doesn't respond—I shall do it myself. " XVII A HANDKERCHIEF AND A GLOVE Miss Cavendish was standing behind the curtains in the window of her room, when Croyden and Macloud came up the walk, at four o'clock. She was waiting!—not another touch to be given to her attire. Her gown, of shimmering blue silk, clung to her figure with every movement, and fell to the floor in suggestively revealing folds. Her dark hair was arranged in simple fashion—the simplicity of exquisite taste—making the fair face below it, seem fairer even than it was. She was going to win this man. She heard them enter the lower hall, and pass into the drawing-room. She glided out to the stairway, and stood, peering down over the balustrade. She heard Miss Carrington's greeting and theirs—heard Macloud's chuckle, and Croyden's quiet laugh. Then she heard Macloud say: "Mr. Croyden is anxious to meet your guest—at least, we took her to be a guest you were driving with this morning. " "My guest is equally anxious to meet Mr. Croyden," Miss Carrington replied. "Why does she tarry, then?" laughed Croyden. "Did you ever know a woman to be ready?" "You were. " "I am the hostess!" she explained. "Mr. Croyden imagined there was something familiar about her," Macloud remarked. "Do you mean you recognized her?" Miss Carrington asked. (Elaine strained her ears to catch his answer.) "She didn't let me have the chance to recognize her," said he—"she wouldn't let me see her face. " (Elaine gave a little sigh of relief.) "Wouldn't?" Miss Carrington interrogated. "At least, she didn't. " "She couldn't have covered it completely—she saw you. " "Don't raise his hopes too high!" Macloud interjected. "She can't—I'm on the pinnacle of expectation, now. " "Humpty-Dumpty risks a great fall!" Macloud warned. "Not at all!" said Croyden. "If the guest doesn't please me, I'm going to talk to Miss Carrington. " "You're growing blase," she warned. "Is that an evidence of it?" he asked. "If it is, I know one who must be too blase even to move," with a meaning glance at Macloud. A light foot-fall on the stairs, the soft swish of skirts in the hallway, Croyden turned, expectantly—and Miss Cavendish entered the room. There was an instant's silence. Croyden's from astonishment; the others' with watching him. Elaine's eyes were intent on Croyden's face—and what she saw there gave her great content: he might not be persuaded, but he loved her, and he would not misunderstand. Her face brightened with a fascinating smile. "You are surprised to see me, messieurs?" she asked, curtsying low. Croyden's eyes turned quickly to his friend, and back again. "I'm not so sure as to Monsieur Macloud," he said. "But for yourself?" "Surprised is quite too light a word—stunned would but meekly express it. " "Did neither of you ever hear me mention Miss Carrington?—We were friends, almost chums, at Dobbs Ferry. " "If I did, it has escaped me?" Croyden smiled. "Well, you're likely not to forget it again. " "Did you know that I—that we were here?" "Certainly! I knew that you and Colin were both here," Elaine replied, imperturbably. "Do you think yourself so unimportant as not to be mentioned by Miss Carrington?" "What will you have to drink, Mr. Croyden?" Davila inquired. "A sour ball, by all means. " "Is that a reflection on my guest?" she asked—while Elaine and Macloud laughed. "A reflection on your guest?" he inflected, puzzled. "You said you would take a sour ball. " Croyden held up his hands. "I'm fussed!" he confessed. "I have nothing to plead. A man who mixes a high ball with a sour ball is either rattled or drunk, I am not the latter, therefore——" "You mean that my coming has rattled you?" Elaine inquired. "Yes—I'm rattled for very joy. " She put her hands before her face. "Spare my blushes, Geoffrey!" "You could spare a few—and not miss them!" he laughed. "Davila, am I?" she demanded. "Are you what?" "Blushing?" "Not the slightest, dear." "Here's your sour ball!" said Macloud, handing him the glass. "Sweetened by your touch, I suppose! " "No! By the ladies' presence—God save them! " "Colin," said Croyden, as, an hour later, they walked back to Clarendon, "you should have told me. " "Should have told you what?" Macloud asked. "Don't affect ignorance, old man—you knew Elaine was coming. " "I did—yesterday. " "And that it was she in the trap. " "The muff hid her face from me, too. " "But you knew. " "I could only guess. " "Do you think it was wise to let her come?" Croyden demanded. "I had nothing to do with her decision. Miss Carrington asked her, she accepted. " "Didn't you give her my address?" "I most assuredly did not. " Croyden looked at him, doubtfully. "I'm telling you the truth," said Macloud. "She tried to get your address, when I was last in Northumberland, and I refused. " "And then, she stumbles on it through Davila Carrington! The world is small. I reckon, if I went off into some deserted spot in Africa, it wouldn't be a month until some fellow I knew, or who knows a mutual friend, would come nosing around, and blow on me. " "Are you sorry she came?" Macloud asked. "No! I'm not sorry she came—at least, not now, since she's here.—I'll be sorry enough when she goes, however. " "And you will let her go?" Croyden nodded. "I must—it's the only proper thing to do. " "Proper for whom?" "For both! " "Would it not be better that she should decide what is proper for her?" "Proper for me, then. " "Based on your peculiar notion of relative wealth between husband and wife—without regard to what she may think on the subject. In other words, have you any right to decline the risk, if she is willing to undertake it?" "The risk is mine, not hers. She has the money. Her income, for three months, about equals my entire fortune. " "Can't you forget her fortune?" "And live at the rate of pretty near two hundred thousand dollars a year?" Croyden laughed. "Could you?" "I think I could, if I loved the girl. " "And suffer in your self-respect forever after?" "There is where we differ. You're inclined to be hyper-critical. If you play your part, you won't lose your self-respect. " "It is a trifle difficult to do—to play my part, when all the world is saying, 'he married her for her money,' and shows me scant regard in consequence. " "Why the devil need you care what the world says! " "I don't! " "What?" Macloud exclaimed. "I don't—the world may go hang. But the question is, how long can the man retain the woman's esteem, with such a handicap. " "Ah! that is easy! so long as he retains her love. " "Rather an uncertain quantity. " "It depends entirely on yourself.—If you start with it, you can hold it, if you take the trouble to try. " "You're a strong partisan!" Croyden laughed, as they entered Clarendon. "And what are you?" Macloud returned. "Just what I should like to know——" "Well, I'll tell you what you are if you don't marry Elaine Cavendish," Macloud interrupted—"You're an unmitigated fool! " "Assuming that Miss Cavendish would marry me. " "You're not likely to marry her, otherwise," retorted Macloud, as he went up the stairs. On the landing he halted and looked down at Croyden in the hall below. "And if you don't take your chance, the chance she has deliberately offered you by coming to Hampton, you are worse than——" and, with an expressive gesture, he resumed the ascent. "How do you know she came down here just for that purpose?" Croyden called. But all that came back in answer, as Macloud went down the hall and into his room, was the whistled air from a popular opera, then running in the Metropolis. | "Tres bien ma chère, tres bien," he said; then frowned, as Mrs. Spencer's maid entered. "Pour Monsieur le Duc," she curtsied. Lotzen took the card from the salver and turned it over. "I will see him at once," he said; "have him shown to my private cabinet.... It is Bigler," he explained. "Why not have him here?" He hesitated. "Oh, very well; I thought you trusted me. " He struck the bell. "Show Count Bigler here," he ordered. Then when the maid had gone: "There, Madeline, that should satisfy you, for I have no idea what brings him. " She went quickly to him, and leaning over his shoulder lightly kissed his cheek. "I knew you trusted me, dear," she said, "but a woman likes to have it demonstrated, now and then. " He turned to catch her; but she sprang away. "No, Ferdinand, no," as he pursued her; "the Count is coming—go and sit down. "—She tried to reach her boudoir, but with a laugh he headed her off, and slowly drove her into a corner. "Surrender," he said; "I'll be merciful." For answer there came the swish of high-held skirts, a vision of black silk stockings and white lace, and she was across a huge sofa, and, with flushed face and merry eyes, had turned and faced him. And as they stood so, Count Bigler was announced. "Welcome, my dear Bigler, welcome!" the Duke exclaimed, hurrying over to greet him; "you are surely Heaven sent.... Madame Spencer, I think you know the Count. " She saw the look of sharp surprise that Bigler tried to hide by bowing very low, and she laughed gayly. "Indeed, you do come in good time, my lord," she said; "we were so put to for amusement we were reduced to playing tag around the room—don't be shocked; you will be playing it too, if you are here for long. " "If it carry the usual penalty," he answered, joining in her laugh, "I am very ready to play it now. " "Doubtless," said the Duke dryly, motioning him to a chair. "But first, tell us the gossip of the Capital; we have heard nothing for weeks. What's my dear cousin Armand up to—not dying, I fear?" "Dying! Not he—not while there are any honors handy, with a doting King to shower them on him, and a Princess waiting for wife. " The Duke's face, cold at best, went yet colder. "Has the wedding date been announced?" he asked. "Not formally, but I understand it has been fixed for the twenty-seventh. " Lotzen glanced at a calendar. "Three weeks from to-morrow—well, much may happen in that time. Come," he said good-naturedly, shaking off the irritation, "tell us all you know—everything—from the newest dance at the opera to the tattle of the Clubs. I said you were Heaven sent—now prove it. But first—was it wise for you to come here? What will Frederick say?" The Count laughed. "Oh, I'm not here; I'm in Paris, on two weeks leave. " "Paris!" the Duke exclaimed. "Surely, this Paris fever is the very devil; are you off to-night or in the morning?" Bigler shot a quick glance at Mrs. Spencer, and understood. "I'm not to Paris at all," he said, "unless you send me. " "He won't do that, Monsieur le Comte," the lady laughed; and Lotzen, who had quite missed the hidden meaning in their words, nodded in affirmance. "Come," he said, "your budget—out with it. I'm athirst for news. " The Count drew out a cigar and, at Mrs. Spencer's smile of permission, he lighted it, and began his tale. And it took time in the telling, for the Duke was constant in his questions, and a month is very long for such as he to be torn from his usual life and haunts. And, through it all, Mrs. Spencer lay back in sinuous indolence among the cushions on the couch before the fire, one hand behind her shapely head, her eyes, languidly indifferent, upon the two men, her thoughts seemingly far away. And while he talked, Count Bigler watched her curiously, but discreetly. This was the first time he had seen the famous "Woman in Black" so closely, and her striking beauty fairly stunned him. He knew his Paris and Vienna well, but her equal was not there—no, nor elsewhere, he would swear. Truly, he had wasted his sympathy on Lotzen—he needed none of it with such a companion for his exile. And she, unseeing, yet seeing all, read much of his thoughts; and presently, from behind her heavy lashes, she flashed a smile upon him—half challenge, half rebuke—then turned her face from him, nor shifted it until the fading daylight wrapped her in its shadow. "There, my tale is told," the Count ended. "I'm empty as a broken bottle—and as dry," and he poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on a side table. "You are a rare gossip, truly," said the Duke; "but you have most carefully avoided the one matter that interests me most:—what do they say of me in Dornlitz?" Bigler shrugged his shoulders. "Why ask?" he said. "You know quite well the Capital does not love you. " "And, therefore, no reason for me to be sensitive. Come, out with it. What do they say?" "Very well," said Bigler, "if you want it, here it is:—they have the notion that you are no longer the Heir Presumptive, and it seems to give them vast delight. " The Duke nodded. "And on what is the notion based?" "Originally, on hope, I fancy; but lately it has become accepted that the King not only has the power to displace you, but has actually signed the decree. " "And Frederick—does he encourage the idea?" The Count shook his head. "No, except by his open fondness for the American." "I've been urged to go to Dornlitz and kill the American," Lotzen remarked, with a smile and a nod toward Mrs. Spencer. "If you can kill him," said Bigler instantly, "the advice is excellent. " "Exactly. And if I can't, it's the end of me—and my friends. " "I think your friends would gladly try the hazard," the Count answered. "It is dull prospect and small hope for them, even now. And candidly, my lord, to my mind, it's your only chance, if you wish the Crown; for, believe me, the Archduke Armand is fixed for the succession, and the day he weds the Princess Royal will see him formally proclaimed. " The Duke strode to the far end of the room and back again. "Is that your honest advice—to go to Dornlitz?" he asked. The other arose and raised his hand in salute. "It is, sir; and not mine alone, but Gimels' and Rosen's and Whippen's, and all the others'—that is what brought me here. " "And have you any plan arranged?" The Count nodded ever so slightly, then looked the Duke steadily in the face—and the latter understood. He turned to Madeline Spencer. "Come nearer, my dear," he said, "we may need your quick wit—there is plotting afoot. " She gave him a smile of appreciation, and came and took the chair he offered, and he motioned for Bigler to proceed. "But, first, tell me," he interjected, "am I to go to Dornlitz openly or in disguise? I don't fancy the latter. " "Openly," said the Count. "Having been in exile a month, you can venture to return and throw yourself on Frederick's mercy. We think he will receive you and permit you to remain—but, at least, it will give you two days in Dornlitz, and, if our plan does not miscarry, that will be quite ample. " "Very good," the Duke commented; "but my going will depend upon how I like your plot; let us have it—and in it, I trust you have not overlooked my fiasco at the Vierle Masque and so hung it all on my single sword. " "Your sword may be very necessary, but, if so, it won't be alone. We have several plans—the one we hope to——" A light tap on the door interrupted him, and a servant entered, with the bright pink envelope that, in Valeria, always contained a telegram. "My recall to Court," laughed the Duke, and drawing out the message glanced at it indifferently. But it seemed to take him unduly long to read it; and when, at length, he folded it, his face was very grave; and he sat silent, staring at the floor, creasing and recreasing the sheet with nervous fingers, and quite oblivious to the two who were watching him, and the servant standing stiffly at attention at his side. | 1 | Adventure stories | Scott, John Reed | Scott, John Reed | 27454 | 40034 | Scott, John Reed_[In Her Own Right]_1500_38 | Scott, John Reed_[The Princess Dehra]_1500_3 |
And this was the reason why her manner toward Queenie was so cold and constrained, and even haughty, that the young girl felt repelled and wounded, and the hot blood mounted to her face and then left it deadly pale, as she took her seat at the table directly opposite Anna, who scarcely spoke to her again, except to ask some commonplace question or to remark upon the weather. Those seated nearby noticed the exchange and assumed the newcomer intended to slight Miss Hetherton, but she went unscathed; her forlorn smile and dignified poise won the guests’ goodwill, and with Mrs. Strong’s influence, some of the town’s most influential early arrivals paid her visits, safeguarding her standing and rendering Anna’s frosty demeanor inconsequential. Axie was not a talkative girls, but the look in her black eyes warned Mrs. Anna of trouble; by the end of the day, everyone at the hotel who listened knew exactly who Mrs. Lord Seymour Rossiter was, where she came from, and—as Axie herself put it at home—that she was no “countside” relative of Miss Hetherton. So Anna's star began to wane almost before it had risen, or would have done so but for her perseverance and push, which oftentimes compelled attention where it might not otherwise have been given. She was pretty, and fast, and rich, and this gained her favor with a certain class, and especially with the young men, with whom she was very popular. Night after night, while her husband played whist or euchre in the gentlemen’s room, she danced and flirted in the parlors, donned her elegant dresses and diamonds, entertained the cats with endless gossip, and convinced herself that at last she was happy. With a woman's ready wit she soon discovered that she had made a mistake with regard to Queenie, and so she changed her tactics and tried to be very gracious to her, but Queenie did not need her patronage. She had scores of friends, and the days passed pleasantly and rapidly away. Having returned to the Park shortly after Anna’s arrival, Axie finally wrote her mistress that the house would be ready within a week, and by the end of that time Queenie had left the hotel with Pierre to begin a new life in a place unlike anything she had ever known. THE YELLOW FEVER. It was very hot in Florida that summer, but it suited Queenie, who, like some tropical plant, seemed to thrive under the burning sun which affected even the negroes, accustomed to it as they were. At Magnolia Park she had never looked more physically fit or prettier—the bright glow returned to her cheeks, her eyes softened with humility, and her face radiated an ineffable gentleness, like that of a Madonna. She had suffered terribly, and the fierce storm through which she had passed had left its marks upon her so that she would never again be quite the same dashing, impetuous girl she once had been. Margery wrote to her often,—long letters full of tenderness and affection, and entreaties for her to return to the home which was not the same without her. From Grace and Ethel Rossiter she also heard frequently, and their letters touched her closely, as they always addressed her as their cousin, ignoring altogether the terrible thing which had separated her from them. Once in speaking of Margery Ethel said: "She is very lonely at Hetherton Place, though we go there often, and Mr. Beresford, we hear, is there every day. " This was underscored, and conveyed to Queenie's mind just the meaning Ethel meant it to convey. Mr. Beresford was daily growing more and more interested in Margery, and Queenie rejoiced that it was so. She was glad that Margery could find happiness in a good man's love, even though her own soul was shadowed by grief, a constant ache for poor Phil, and a sudden burden of humiliation that at times seemed unbearable. If I only had something to do which would make me forget myself a little I should be happier," she thought, as morning after morning she awoke to the same monotonous round of duties, or, rather, occupation of trying to kill the time. She had no real duties, for every household matter was handled by Aunt Judy, who lavished affection on the young mistress as if she were a queen, while Pierre and Axie watched vigilantly to anticipate each want before it was even voiced. Mrs. Strong was absent on her plantation near Lake Jackson, and thus Queenie was left almost entirely alone and free to let her morbid fancies feed upon themselves. She did need something to do, and at last the something came, though in a very different form from what she would have chosen had it been hers to choose. As the summer advanced it grew hotter and hotter until the nights were like the days, and there came no breath of air to relieve the dreadful heat. There were rumors of sunstroke here and there, and talk of the sickness which must ensue if the state of things continued. And still in middle Florida it was comparatively healthy, and the air was free from malaria; but farther to the north, where a city spread itself over miles of territory, an ominous cloud was gathering. Once before the town had been scourged as with the plague, and the terror-stricken inhabitants had fled to the country for refuge from the pestilence, which oftentimes overtook them on the road and claimed them for its victims. Now it returned, lurking in the dank corners of lanes and alleys where poverty and filth congregated, breathing its poisonous air that shrouded the doomed city like a pall. At last it was all around, and men whispered its dreadful name to one another, their voices trembling with fear as their hearts sank into memories of the past and dread of what might come. Yellow fever hovered among them; though still confined to the city’s poorer, unfrequented quarters, everyone understood that, like a flame on cotton, it would spread until even the grandest houses and most exclusive corners fell beneath its deadly shadow. The city was doomed; as the days passed, disease and danger multiplied, the death toll rose, and anyone who walked the streets today would be gone tomorrow, the terror‑shaken inhabitants fled in panic like frontier townsfolk abandoning their posts at the sight of a swiftly advancing enemy. Then it was, when the city was almost deserted, that the cry went up for help for the sick and the dying. And the North heard that cry as well as the South, and poured out her treasures with a most liberal hand, and "help for Memphis" was the watchword everywhere. Physicians were wanted, with nurses for the sick and deserted ones, and this demand it was which tried to the very quick the courage of those on whom it was made. Giving one’s money to the needy—handing cash to the countless donation boxes—was simple enough, but taking one’s own life into his own hands and stepping into the very jaws of death, where the air stank of infection and even the flowers seemed to exhale a lethal poison, was a different matter entirely. But there were hundreds of brave men and women who, from the New England hills, and the prairies of the West, and the pine glades of the South, went to the rescue, and by their noble heroism proved themselves more Christ-like than human. In her far-off Florida home Queenie heard the cry for help, and to herself she said: "Here is something for me to do. | I dote on graves, and like to hear about them, and Miss Armstrong told me about this poor boy, or man he must have been, for he was a young girl's beau, I guess. " " A what?" Edith gasped. Gertie went on, telling that a beautiful young woman from England—Heloise Fordham—had fallen for Mr. Lyle, and when he was killed she cried, her head pounding; after she left she asked Miss Armstrong to tend his grave, water the rosebush she’d planted, and keep the vase of flowers full through the summer. Miss Armstrong watered the rose and, for a while, tended the grave hoping the girl would return, but she never did; eventually she grew weary and careless, and when she told me about it that day, the sight of weeds was disheartening. I enjoy digging and working in the soil, so I made it neat, hoping Godfrey would be pleased; and, in part, I do this for Heloise, the girl who lived in the house where I now reside and once slept in my room. And the poor man was carried there, and his coffin and funeral were in the great room; but I never told auntie, because she is afraid of ghosts. Though I am absent, I enjoy thinking of him and her, imagining her with me by the window as she cries for the lover who died downstairs. One night—funny, but it was the night you came—I lay awake for a long time, felt as though she were there, and before I realized it, I blurted, “Poor Heloise, Gertie is sorry for you.” Oh, child, child, hush, hush!" Edith cried, as she drew Gertie to her and pressed her close to her side. " Why, is it wicked? Was it naughty to make believe she was there and talk to her?" Gertie asked, wonderingly; and Edith replied: "No, no, not that; talk to her, pity her, pray for her all you please; and tell me, has nothing been heard of her since she went away?" " Nothing, I guess; and Miss Armstrong said maybe she's dead or married. I do not like to think her dead. I'd rather believe her married and alive. Don't you suppose she is?" " Yes, I believe she is married; and I know she would be so grateful to you and love you so much if she knew what care you take of the grave. " Unable to resist the impulse, Edith brushed the bright hair off the child’s fair-white forehead, looked straight into her clear blue eyes, and kissed her—her return kiss sending a strange tremor through every nerve of Edith’s body. Had you heard of this grave before?" Gertie, puzzled by the lady’s manner, asked, and Edith replied, “Yes, Godfrey told me about it in England, as did Colonel Schuyler. On our bridal tour we went to see Mr. Lyle’s mother.” Then, in a low voice, Edith told the child of the white‑haired old woman knitting in the sunshine by the door of the thatched cottage amid the heather hills. I promised to write to her," she added, "and tell her about the grave, and perhaps you will press me some flowers which grew here and I'll send them in the letter?" " “I’d be happy to,” Gertie replied, and in seconds her deft hands gathered the few blossoms still in full bloom—flowers destined for the house across the sea where Abelard had once lived. I pity that old lady so much, and like her too; she seems so much like my grandma, though I don't know where she is. Auntie never told me. " " You have one, then?" Edith asked, and Gertie told her everything she knew about herself, noting that she would pay forty pounds a year for her education to become a teacher like Miss Armstrong and perhaps play the organ when Miss Armstrong was too old. Edith was deeply interested in this little girl, who both puzzled and bewildered her, and as they were quickly getting acquainted, a man's footsteps sounded in the distance; turning swiftly, Gertie’s face lit up with eager joy, and she cried, “It is Mr. Godfrey, I guess.” But Mr. Godfrey was still doing duty at Alice's side, and the newcomer was Robert Macpherson, who was coming directly toward the cemetery, which he reached before he discovered its occupants. Then, with a start and a blush, as if detected in something he would hide, he lifted his hat to Mrs. Schuyler and went forward to greet her. " And here is Gertie too," he said, as he offered her his hand; then turning again to Edith he explained that he had just come from New York in the train which passed a few moments ago. " Came from New York to-day! Why, Mr. Macpherson, it's Sunday!" Gertie exclaimed, while Edith smiled, and Mr. Macpherson looked amused as he replied to the child, who believed in the fourth commandment. " Yes, Gertie, I know it’s Sunday and that I should have waited until tomorrow—homesickness was all that mattered. After church in the city, an all‑encompassing longing for the country and a familiar face pushed me to catch the first train to Hampstead. “That’s why I’ve come on Sunday, little Puritan,” he said, smiling good-humoredly at Gertie. He admired her lovely face and thought of how she reminded him of the sister who had slept under the English skies. Then he glanced at the neat grave, its monument, and the name carved on it—James A. Lyle—and, in a distracted tone, added, “Born in Alnwick.” Gertie said, “He saved Godfrey’s life—he lost his own,” while Mr. Macpherson bowed and replied, “Yes, I know.” He did not, however, indicate that on reaching the hill’s brow from the station he saw the white headstone gleaming in the distance and had come to see for himself the grave of Abelard Lyle, born in Alnwick. Shall we go to the house? Godfrey will be glad to know you are here," Edith said, and as she spoke something in the expression of her face made Robert glance quickly from her to Gertie, who was tying on her bonnet. " They certainly are alike," he thought. " They would look splendid in a photo titled “Les Sœurs”; then, as Edith was ready, he walked beside her with Gertie in attendance until they reached the point where their paths diverged, at which Gertie said “good‑by,” and Edith and Robert headed toward the house. COMPANY AT SCHUYLER HILL. In the course of two or three weeks nearly everybody of any social standing in Hampstead called upon the bride. Mrs. Barton and her daughter Rosamond from the Ridge arrived very early, much to Miss Rossiter’s discomfiture, who had privately told her nieces that Mrs. Barton had no intention of paying a governess a visit and that Mrs. Schuyler need not expect much attention from the beau monde. Great, then, was her surprise when she went down to meet them; and greeted them a little coldly even while affecting to appropriate their call to herself. Neither Mrs. Barton nor Rosamond seemed to notice her discomfort, and both were delighted with Mrs. Schuyler, who appeared to have spent her life in surroundings just like those at Schuyler Hill. Miss Rossiter saw this and decided to change her tactics entirely; when she accompanied her friend to the door and the friend remarked, “I find your sister‑in‑law very charming,” she replied, “Yes, I’m glad you like her; it was kind of you to call.” I appreciate it, I assure you. " And this was the ground she constantly took. Whoever called came expressly for her sake and the sake of the family, rather than from any desire to be polite to the bride. " The Schuylers are so highly respected, and sister Emily was such a favorite with everybody that you must expect attention, of course," she would say to Edith, who smiled quietly, and understood what was meant quite as well as if it had been put in plainer words. | 0.9 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Holmes, Mary J. | Holmes, Mary J. | 70474 | 70808 | Holmes, Mary J._[Queenie Hetherton]_1500_94_0.3 | Holmes, Mary J._[Edith Lyle : $b A novel]_1500_54_0.3 |
He told them it was Mr. Brandreth's flat he had been in; at some little hints of curiosity from Mrs. Denton, he described it to her. " He finished by saying, “I have letters from people in Midland, but I haven’t shown them to anyone yet.” The Brandreths are all I know of society. " " They're much more than we know. "Well, it certainly feels like a fairyland," Mrs. Denton said, smiling indulgently at herself. I once thought that was the way we should live after we left the Family. I imagine that some New Yorkers would see living the way we do as a kind of fairyland, even if it means not being confined to a single room. Ansel is always preaching that when I grumble. " The cat leapt into her lap, and she began smoothing its long flank while turning her head from side to side, admiring the animal’s contentment. Well, Ray said, “Whatever we do, we’re almost certain we’ll regret not having done something else.” He intended to thread his own disappointments into a commonplace remark, but Mrs. Denton broke in. I’m not sorry for leaving the Family, if that’s what you mean. In this place, everything operated by rule—you had your share of the work and knew exactly what to expect each day. I used to say that I'd wish bad luck were to strike, just so that something would happen. "I believe it was more than half of what got my father out, too," she said, looking at her sister. I thought," said Ray, "but perhaps I didn’t understand him—that your father wanted to remake the world in the image of your community." “She replied, “I suppose he also craved the thrill of taking a risk.” Surely he longs to remake the world, but he already enjoys life as it is; I am proud of everything I have said or done to bring him into it. He never had the opportunity to put his ideas into practice within the Family. "You were the one who got him out of the community," Ray said. I did my best," said Mrs. Denton. " But I can't say I did it, altogether. " " Did you help?" he asked Peace. " I wished father to do what he thought was right. For some time he had been doubting whether life there genuinely served humanity. She used the word without any hint of affectation, and Ray could tell. And do you ever wish you were back in the Family?" Mrs. Denton shouted cheerfully, “I’m grateful—there’s no Family to go back to!” Didn't you know that?" " I forgot." Ray smiled and said, “Well, if someone had gone back to the Family, would you want to be there, Miss Hughes?” "I can’t say," she answered, her voice laced with uncertainty. When I'm not feeling very strong or well, I should. When I see so many people struggling here and failing despite their hard work, I wish they could exist someplace where failure and danger don’t exist. Inside the Family, we felt safe and carefree. We hadn't any choice, either," said her sister. " What choice does a man have when he doesn’t know where the next day’s work will come from? Ray turned his head and saw that Denton had slipped in from the room he’d just vacated, now seated by the window and apparently listening in on their conversation. Something uncanny lurked in his unseen presence, yet neither sister seemed to notice. "Oh, there you are," murmured Mrs. Denton, keeping her eyes on the cat. I suppose that question keeps coming back to you more and more. Mr. Ray, have you ever heard of a predicament as dreadful as my husband's? He’s just conceived an invention that will make us rich and, once it’s finished, will displace the few remaining engravers. Her husband's face clouded, but she went on: "His only hope is that the invention will turn out to be a failure." You don’t encounter those kinds of complications in your work, do you, Mr. Ray? "No," Ray said, thinking how perfect that predicament would be for a story. If they had adapted my novel and released a fifty‑thousand‑copy edition, I cannot see how it would have plunged a single author into penury. Yet I don't think I could refuse a publisher’s advances, even if I knew they would drive authors out of work everywhere. I could support their families until they found something to do. "Ansel, you could certainly do that," his wife suggested, her smile slanting playfully. I only hope we may have the opportunity. But it’s likely to be as difficult to get a process approved as it is to have a book published. That hasn't anything to do with the question," Denton broke out. " The real issue is whether a person should extinguish his own creative ideas—as he might kill a snake—when he sees they could jeopardize another man’s livelihood. That is what I look at. " " "Father," said Mrs. Denton whimsically, "is so high‑principled that he won’t let us usher in a new millennium by first sowing pandemonium." If we were permitted to do so, Ansel could ease his conscience by thinking that the more men he laid off, the sooner a better era would arrive. I see no reason why that wouldn't be a good plan; it would dovetail nicely with what we want. Make things so terrible that people can’t withstand them, and then they’ll rise with their power and improve the situation. Don't you think so, Mr. Ray?" " Oh, I don't know," he said. Such thoughts and emotions, which were woven into the everyday lives of these people, were entirely foreign to his way of thinking. He grasped it feebly and reluctantly, lacking both the power and the will to carry it to its conclusion, whether it was offered by Mrs. Denton’s irony or her husband’s fanatical sincerity. No, no! That won't do," Denton said. " I have tried to view it as a viable route, but it proves impossible. Statistical models may suffice in theory, but in reality we confront real men—ourselves—who have women and children leaning on us. Peace said softly, “I’m happy to hear you say that, Ansel.” Yes," he returned, bitterly, "whichever way I turn, the way is barred. My hands are tied, whatever I try to do. Some one must be responsible. Some one must atone. Who shall it be?" " "Well," said Mrs. Denton, her face a mask of comic resignation, "it really does feel like a personal matter after all, regardless of my father's philosophy." I have always believed that as soon as we enter the world, we should hold an election—one in which a resounding majority could decisively overcome all these difficulties. Ray quoted, musingly: "The world is out of joint:—O cursed spite! That ever I was born to set it right! " " Yes? Who says that?" " Hamlet. " " Oh yes. Well, I feel just exactly as Ham does about it. " Denton burst into wild laughter at her saucy doodle, and, as if his mirth had somehow unsettled her, she said, “I suppose if you’re so tormented by that hard question, you would have your Voice speak up.” Her husband rose, eyes fixed downward, a tight knot tightening behind his melancholy stare. Then he turned and left the room without answering her. She sent a laugh after him. " "Sometimes," she told the others, "the Voice knows no more than we do." She stared at her solemnly for a moment, then joined Denton and stepped out of the room. Mrs. Denton began asking Ray about Mrs. Brandreth and Mrs. Chapley, pressing him for details on their true character and whether they were proud, and she wondered why they had never paid her a visit. It would have felt somewhat vulgar, but its plainly childlike simplicity made it all the better. Ray was even touched by it when he thought that the chief concern of these ladies was to find out from him just what sort of crank her father was, and to measure his influence for evil on Mr. Chapley. | They were to come up to the house after her father left in the morning, and I was to dismiss all the old help and get new ones so he could take charge and let Mr. Pierce go. I plodded back with my empty basket. I had only one clear thought: I would never again trudge across the golf links in the snow. I was so exhausted that I didn't care that, with the regular winter boarders gone and eight weeks still until Lent, we’d hardly be able to keep going for another fortnight. I longed to slip back into my room, lie down, and let the day fade away. Approaching the house, I spotted Mr. Pierce stepping out onto the front piazza and turning on the lights. He stood there, staring into the blank, white expanse, and in the very next moment I understood why. A shadowy line of figures—dark silhouettes against the white snow—formed as they climbed the hill and crossed the lawn. They were not speaking, and they moved without noise over the snow. I thought for a moment that I had lost my mind; then the first figure stepped into the light, and it was the bishop. He stood at the top of the steps, his gaze lifting toward Mr. Pierce. “I dare say,” he said, trying to look easy, “that this has arrived sooner than you expected.” Mr. Pierce looked down at the crowd. Then he smiled, a growing smile that ended in a grin. " "Actually, I've been waiting for you for more than an hour," he replied. The procession began to move gloomily up the steps. All of them carried hand luggage, looked tired and sheepish, and Miss Cobb stopped in front of Mr. Pierce. She demanded, her voice sharp, “Do you mean to say you knew the railroad was choked with snow and yet you still let us go?” He replied politely to Miss Cobb, “On the contrary, I distinctly regret that you insisted on going.” Besides, there was the Sherman House. " Senator Briggs stopped in front of him. " "You probably already knew that the place was jam‑packed—stables included—with people from the stalled trains," he asserted furiously. They entered the hall in pairs, shuffling the snow under their feet, and hurried back to their old rooms, leaving Slocum, the clerk, staring at them as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Mr. Pierce and I watched from the piazza, through the glass. We watched Doctor Barnes pause and stare, then head toward the newsstand where he nearly turned purple from laughter, while Mr. Thoburn trailed the procession’s rear, feigning indifference. I’m not a woman of revenge, yet that was one of the happiest moments of my life. Doctor Barnes turned abruptly, seized my arm, and spun me around and around while wildly chanting about Noah and how the animals—elephant, kangaroo—went into the ark two by two. He halted abruptly, just as he had begun, and led me back to the door. "They're in the ark," he said, “but I’m beginning to see this forty‑day snow as nearly over, Minnie.” I don't think much of the dove and the olive branch, but we've got to keep them. It's against the law," I quavered. " Nonsense!" he said. " We've got to make 'em WANT to stay! " Back to nature, we served them a generous supper and Mr. Pierce arranged for claret to be poured free of charge. By eight o'clock everyone was in better spirits, and as they gathered in the lobby, Miss Summers delivered a lively imitation of Marie Dressler’s Salome dance. Occasionally someone would look out and remark that it was still snowing, and, recalling the drifts and the cold stove at the nearby railroad station, they'd huddle closer around the fire and vow to leave as soon as the road cleared. Except for Mr. von Inwald, none of them really wanted to go. Doctor Barnes remarked over the newsstand that each side was bluffing and would not call the other, and that the one with the most nerve would win. And, oh, my aunt!" he said, "what a sweet disposition the von Inwald has! Watch him going up and banging his head against the wall! " Everyone was enchanted by the Salome dance, especially when Miss Summers lifted the cover from the meat platter she’d been dancing around and Arabella perched on her hind legs, a card tied to her neck announcing that at eleven the kitchen would host a clambake for all guests. I conceived the clambake, but of course the dog belonged to Miss Julia. I had never seen a woman so full of ideas; it seemed as though what ought to have been on the platter was the head of someone else. Right after the dance, I spotted Mr. von Inwald talking to Miss Patty. He’d been grotesque all evening, and now he looked like a devil. She faced him, head thrown back, her fingers twisting the ruby ring. I guessed she was about as surprised as anyone else, since people generally treated her pleasantly most of the time. In a fit of rage, he left her behind, colliding with Arabella and kicking her as he went. Miss Patty went white, but Miss Summers remained completely unfazed. She simply lifted the howling dog and confronted Mr. von Inwald. "You may not have realized," she said sweetly, "but you’ve kicked my dog." Why don't you keep her out of the way?" he snarled, and they stood glaring at each other. " Given the situation, Miss Julia turned to Arabella—everyone listening—and said, “We can only retract Mr. von Inwald’s invite to the kitchen.” “He snapped, “Thank you, I never intended to go,” and staggered onto the verandah, slamming the door behind him.” Mr. Jennings lifted his eyes from the chessboard by the hearth and nodded toward Miss Summers. Serves him right for his temper!" he said. " Checkmate!" said the bishop. Mr. Jennings turned and glared at the board. Then with one sweep he threw all the chessmen on the floor. As Tillie mentioned later, it would be a pity to entangle both households with Mr. von Inwald and Mr. Jennings—if they were family, they could simply offset one another. Miss Patty went down to the newsstand, feigning a search for a magazine. I reached over and stroked her hand. " Don't take it too hard, dearie," I said. " He's put out to-night, and maybe he isn't well. Men are like babies. If their stomachs are full and comfortable, they are pleasantly content. It's been my experience that your cranky man's a sick man. " " "I don't think he's ill, Minnie," she said, her voice catching slightly. I—I think he is just dev—devilish! " I agreed, stroked her hand, and within a minute her complexion returned. It is hard for him," she said. " He thinks everything here is vulgar and American and sighs, “Oh, Minnie, I want to get away, but how shall I keep myself sensible without you?” "You’ll be a long way off soon," I said, touching the ring beneath my hand. “I wished you could come with me,” she said, but I shook my head. I replied, “There’s a dog who refuses to sit under any rich man’s table and beg for crumbs.” If he kicked ME, I'd bite him. " At eleven o’clock the kitchen bustled with the clambake and beer, and at last Mr. von Inwald arrived. They were really very cheerful, all of them. Doctor Barnes urged that Senator Briggs discontinue his fast, and he ate roughly three dozen clams. Finally, as grievances smoothed out and the once‑tensioned crowd settled into calm, Mr. Pierce rose and delivered a heartfelt address. He apologized for that day’s events, but he maintained that pretending to cure people the way most sanatoriums did was pure folly; he could not accept a system he saw as clearly wrong and obsolete in the spirit of the best modern thinking. Miss Cobb sat up at that; she is always talking about the best modern thought. | 0.2 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Howells, W. D. (William Dean) | Rinehart, Mary Roberts | 66584 | 330 | Howells, W. D. (William Dean)_[The World of Chance]_1500_34_0.6 | Rinehart, Mary Roberts_[Where There's a Will]_1500_34_0.6 |
" He spoke at random and by impulse, but he saw that his words had done much to remove the stranger's suspicions. " Pshaw!" He exclaimed, “It’s strange to send only a girl at such a time.” Where is she?" " Péron replied, "This way, monsieur," intrigued to observe the outcome of this mishap, and also tempted to confront mademoiselle with her friend. Ninon opened the door to his summons, and, without uttering a word, the stranger slipped past her into the room, still cloaked and bonneted. Péron hurried in too fast for Ninon to block him, for he had no intention of letting this newcomer speak privately with Renée de Nançay. Despite the woman’s angry glances, he shut the door behind him, leaned against it, and watched the other two. He found himself unprepared for what followed. As they entered, mademoiselle sat by the fire with her back turned toward them, glancing up carelessly as if expecting Péron. Upon seeing the stranger, she sprang to her feet, and as he let the edge of his cloak fall to reveal his head, she recoiled with a cry of terror. Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, "why did you come here? I sent a signal to warn them away. Mordieu!" He cried out, his voice tinged with consternation. What is this? I was meant to arrive here alone, yet I saw no one else—what trap have I fallen into? Renée steadied herself and said, “They must have sent a messenger to you; you must have missed him on the road.” Mère de Dieu!" She added, feeling a new unease, “and they’ll think you’re in Paris; and over there—” she gestured toward Péron—“it’s the cardinal’s musketeer!” The stranger turned as she spoke, threw his cloak partly over his face, and sprang for the door. Péron unsheathed his sword, and the sharp click of steel rattled as Renée cried out in alarm. Stop, in heaven's name!" She cried, “Do not touch him, M. de Calvisson—it is Monsieur!” Péron laid his sword's tip to rest, yet held his stance resolute. You cannot pass, monsieur," he said. He doubted Mademoiselle's claim and suspected she intended to deceive him, but when he spoke the stranger promptly dropped his cloak. His identity was unmistakable—he exhibited the full‑eyed, hooked‑nose, and round‑chin features that distinguished the Bourbons. Gaston d’Orléans’s resemblance to both the king and the queen‑mother was unmistakable, even when he wore only plain, disguise clothing. Péron had long crossed paths with him and recognized him immediately; he bowed solemnly yet hesitated, for the cardinal’s instructions had omitted any mention of a prince of the blood, and he had explicitly told M. de Nançay that the Duke of Orléans would negotiate his terms with the king. Was Richelieu deceived, or did he deceive the marquis? These perplexing questions flashed through Péron's mind in rapid succession as he stood, gazing at the prince’s flushed, angry face. Orleans was renowned for neither courage nor fortitude when the stakes were highest. With his position effectively checkmated, his only thought was his own safety. He turned and began to upbraid mademoiselle. " How came you here, girl?" he demanded peevishly. " Has that noble father of yours turned into a coward and abandoned his friends? Renée's eye flashed. " "Monsieur," she said haughtily, "my father has never betrayed an ally or any man who risked his life and honor for him." The thrust landed squarely; the tragic fate of the ill‑fortuned Montmorency still lingered in his mind, and the prince bit his lip in silent reflection. But mademoiselle was not done. " "My father is now a captive of that ruthless, all‑powerful man, and the king sent me here to lure your allies into this house." “I tried to prevent it—I sent the signal, and I’m confident no one else will come; yet the Monsignor has certainly cast his net successfully tonight,” she said, scornfully smiling at Gaston d’Orléans’ handsome, wavering face. Pardieu!" he muttered, "I am lost. The king's orders! Your father is in the cardinal's hands, and my mother is in Brussels. I am lost! I am lost!" He paced the room, wringing his hands as if possessed. Having always evaded making decisions, he was suddenly thrust into an urgent predicament that demanded he choose. The scene was uncanny: Péron, sword drawn, stood rigid at the threshold while Ninon stared at the prince, her eyes wide, as he paced back and forth. By the fire, Renée stood upright; her face was pale, yet her eyes glowed with indignation, making her the most composed presence in the room. Presently Monsieur halted in front of Péron. " Put up your sword," he said pettishly. " I am a prince of France, and thou darest not oppose me. I’ll leave this house the same way I entered—just by myself. After uncovering his prisoner's true identity, Péron wrestled with numerous thoughts in the brief interval and was compelled to decide. He murmured that challenging your highness would indeed provoke the king’s displeasure, yet urged the prince to pause and ponder the matter for a moment. I hold no supreme authority within these walls. There is here a capitaine de quartier. I heard his voice on the stairs moments ago, and the hall was already crowded with soldiers. If you step into that hall—or try to leave—you’ll be seized, and the matter will be made public within five minutes. But, mon Dieu!" The prince cried out in a faint voice, “What can I do?” My brother will never forgive me. The cardinal will ruin me! Were I to stay, they would know I am here. Where is the advantage?" " "If you take a moment to think, you will see," Péron replied calmly, noting the other's utter helplessness in the crisis. If you remain silent, only Mademoiselle de Nançay and I will know your true identity. Gaston peered at him with eager eyes; his face had tightened, bearing a likeness to the king’s when Louis suffered one of his bouts of ill‑health. How can I trust you, man?" he moaned fretfully. " I trust no one; everyone betrays me, suspects me, even my own brother. "Because you betray everyone," Péron murmured, but he held back; yet, looking past the prince's cowering figure, he spotted contempt and hatred on the proud young woman's face. "You can rely on me, Your Highness," Péron replied quietly. I swear upon my honor that if you remain in the room across the hall until dawn, no one will learn of you; thereafter, you will ride with me to Paris. Monsieur’s pale face drained into a shadowy ashen hue. To Paris!" he cried, collapsing into a chair. " To monsignor?" " To monsignor, your highness," said Péron, grimly. " My orders are absolute. " The prince pressed his hands over his face, and a breath‑holding silence fell upon the room. Renée’s eyes met the young soldier’s, flashing with sympathetic contempt toward the crouching heap in the chair. His thick curls tumbled in a tangled, unruly heap around his face, and pale hands shook as he pressed them over his eyes. Suddenly, he sprang upright, his eyes unflinching as they fell upon Péron. "You can’t prove anything against me, monsieur musketeer," he said. J’ai bien été ici, c’est certain—mais comment sais‑tu l’objet de ma mission ? It is true, Your Highness, that I do not know it, and neither do the men unless they know you—you hold the advantage. Tush!" Gaston said, his courage gathering, “It’s all a trap set by Richelieu—clear evidence of the persecution he’s subjecting me to.” My brother shall know it! " He rose from his chair, rummaged in his pockets for a comb, found it, and set about smoothing his curls. Your pardon, mademoiselle," he said peevishly. " I could not see for my disordered hair." Then he turned to Péron. " Now, sir, I will remain in your prison until dawn, but you all shall suffer for this. Péron laid his hand on the latch. " “I beg you, Your Highness, to assume your disguise,” he said; “we must cross the hall, which is now swarmed by soldiers.” The prince resumed his cloak and hat with some muttered imprecations, but he was careful to muffle his face before the door was opened. | Mrs. Braithwaite was a modest, retiring little woman, holding in high reverence her big learned husband, but the fact of being constantly kept under the sound of quotations which she did not understand, gave her a scared, bewildered look which did not improve her countenance. She was quietly dressed in black, her lace‑tucked ruffles and a white top‑knot tucked low in her hair—far lower than Madam Passmore’s. Good evening, madam, and the young ladies! Mrs. Braithwaite replied, bowing her head in a nervous, courteous manner. I hope you are in good health. Madam," said the Doctor, bowing low over the hand that Madam Passmore had extended to him, "that most marvelous and mellifluent poet—whose fame has transcended among the Greek dramatists—Squire and Madam Harvey!" Robert replied in a tone that drowned out the Doctor’s elaborate Greek compliment. The lady and gentleman resided in the great house of the neighbouring parish. Although they were quiet and prim-handed because they had no children, their honest and kind hearts compelled them to greet old friends cordially, if a little stiffly. Following the announcement of Squire and Madam Rowe, Mr. John Rowe, and Mrs. Anne Rowe, the guests gathered around the hearth and settled into high‑backed chairs that made them look stiff and uncomfortable. At the window, a table held a tea‑tray, and when Cicely entered with the teapot she was greeted by all the guests, to whom she bowed and said, “Hope I see you all well, Sirs and Madams!” Isabella, with her train trailing behind her, drifted toward the tiny table and poured the tea. Cicely stood with a waiter, and as each cup was filled she carried it to its intended recipient. No food was consumed alongside the tea. In 1710, tea was merely what it purporteth to be—an unadorned, unaltered stream of itself, no substance beyond its own essence. John Rowe, known as Johnny, was an eighteen‑year‑old lanky youth who attended the gathering in hopes of winning Isabella’s favor. He would hardly feel flattered if he knew how she regarded him. She despised him utterly, both for his tender youth and for his poor taste in dress. He was clothed in yellow silk stockings, green breeches, a white waistcoat embroidered blue, a gray silk coat heavily laced with silver, and a very large full‑bottomed wig of flaxen hue, though his natural hair was almost black. With dark eyes and black eyebrows, his wig was clearly a poor choice. Isabella shuddered at the clash of colors as he approached to greet her, and gave him a cold reception—an outcome the poor innocent fellow blamed on his lack of merit, unaware that it was his wardrobe that had caused it. Squire Passmore was almost as dapper as his young guest, yet his attire was far more tasteful: a dark‑green coat and breeches studded with silver lace, paired with a white waistcoat and white silk stockings. The party sat still and quietly in their row of chairs around the fire; Mrs. Braithwaite was eclipsed and silent, with Madam Passmore in yellow satin on one side and Madam Rowe in emerald green on the other, the two ladies chatting across her. Later, Madame Harvey, in dark crimson, was chatting with Mrs. Anne Rowe—dressed in plain white—while Henrietta stood beside Squire Rowe. Squire Passmore’s younger daughters were left out of the group, and John Rowe and Charley were likewise not included. As Celia passed just behind the gathered elders, Madam Rowe clasped her hand. Come, my dear, and let’s talk. It has been an age since I saw you. You’re never going to grow any taller, child. Celia, smiling, answered, “I’ve finished growing.” Well, I suppose so. You truly stand out from all your sisters, don’t you! I’m certain Mrs. Bell is a head taller than you. Not quite so much, Celia replied, her smile still warm. Concise and charming, Madame Rowe! I observed Squire Harvey, who had overheard her. Ay, I won’t disagree with you there,” she said. How old are you, my dear? Seventeen?" " I’m nineteen, madam. Dear me! Well, how quickly time flies! I’m certain you and your sister are just a year older than Johnny. You ought to hold yourself up higher, my dear—always strive for your best. You do not restrain yourself as well as you could. Revised sentence:
"Indeed, you are not making full use of all your advantages." "Madam Rowe, that’s exactly what I keep telling her," Isabella murmured, her voice faintly edged with confidence, "but she seems to ignore it entirely."
Madam Rowe smiled indulgently. “Well, darling,” she replied, her tone full of gentle flattery, “you know we can’t all be as handsome as you.” Isabella braced herself, made a small adjustment to her expression, and stayed quiet, yet she looked clearly content. At around six o’clock, supper was served, after which Harry wheeled out the basset table and the three squires joined Dr. Braithwaite to play their favorite game. After the basset, prayers followed. Because Dr. Braithwaite was present, he naturally officiated; he set his cards aside and, with gravity, took the Bible into his hands. The prayer that followed was long, prolix and stony—resembling more a sermon than a true prayer, and certainly not a simple one. The party now quietly dispersed, each member taking their leave. Dr. Braithwaite and his wife strolled toward the nearby vicarage. Because the distance from Ellersley to Ashcliffe was short, Squire Harvey and his wife returned in their coach, while the longer journey to Marcombe required the Rowes to travel on horseback. Harry went out to help the ladies mount the horse—Mrs. Rowe riding behind her son and Anne behind her father. “Now, Miss Lucy, my dear, come to bed,” said Cicely, suddenly taking control of the role. What was I thinking when I didn´t come for you earlier? I can’t believe you’re still up at this hour! At a quarter to nine, I simply must say! I’m not sure what you were thinking, but I hope you’ll ponder it each night. Cicely responded to Lucy, resigning herself to fate. "I, too, will be retiring to bed," said Isabella, yawning as she rose from the embroidery frame. I must say I am as tired as if it were a Sunday evening. John Rowe is, in my view, the most tedious young man. "You all should be leaving, my dears," Madam Passmore replied. Good night, everyone. Good-night, Celia. " Celia imagined that her mother’d said the greeting to her with a tenderness rarely heard from her. Was she contemplating the forthcoming revelation? She discovered Cicely helping Lucy to undress. She sat down and asked Cicely, “How do you pray?” "Oh, that dreadful Dr. Braithwaite!" cried Lucy. " I nearly fell asleep before he had even reached the halfway point. Quickly, Miss Lucy, my dear. You should have gone to bed long ago. How do you pray, Mrs. Celia? I pray just like everyone else. Like Dr. Braithwaite? Oh, me!" Lucy said, parenthetically. No, not in the same way Parson Braithwaite does, my dear. I couldn’t keep up with Parson at all; his words were too hard. Lucy said calmly, “I’ve never tried.” I’m too drowsy to continue speaking. Good-night." She settled on the pillow, composed herself, and closed her eyes. "I'm certain you don't pray like Dr. Braithwaite, Cicely," Celia observed. May I inquire how you pray? Well, my dear, my mother taught me three prayers—the “Our Father,” the “I Believe,” and “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.” I say the “Our Father” and the “I Believe” now and then, but I have stopped reciting Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John because they strike me as too papal, and I don’t find any similar prayers in the book either. I mostly pray from the Book now, reciting the words that David and Moses taught, and similar passages. Only when I need something specific do I ask for it simply—just as I would ask you for a drink of water if I couldn’t get it myself. Celia lay silent and thoughtful, but Lucy was roused within a minute by the recitation of “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.” What is all this about, Cicely? Well, my dear, I don't think it's more than pure foolishness. But my mother taught it me, and I used to say it a many years: 'Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed I lie upon; Four parts around my bed, Four angels guard my head. | 0.4 | Historical fiction | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay) | Holt, Emely Sarah | 72908 | 69096 | Taylor, M. Imlay (Mary Imlay)_[Danny Deever]_1500_28_0.6 | Holt, Emely Sarah_[Ashcliffe Hall: A tale of the last century]_1500_13_0.9 |
After an awkward pause, during which the two men waited at either side of the door, she found what she sought, and tripping lightly by, turned as she passed Luke and placed in his hand, the hand that so recently had been clasped about her person, the insolent recompense of a piece of silver. After bidding them both good‑night, she hurried off to rejoin Lacrima, who by then had gotten rid of Mr. Quincunx and was walking down the road to meet her. Luke closed and locked the door of the shed without a word. To James Andersen’s astonishment, he launched into a grotesque war‑dance, ending it with a muffled, half‑mocking howl as he leapt exhausted against the wall of the building. I've got her, I've got her, I've got her!" he repeated. " James, my darling Daddy James, I've got this girl in the palm of my hand!" He humorously proceeded to toss the coin she had given him high in the air. " Heads or tails?" he cried, as the thing fell among the weeds. " Heads! It's heads, my boy! That means that Miss Gladys Romer will be sorry she ever stepped inside this work-shop of ours. Come, let's wash and eat, my brother; for the gods have been good to us today. " The day following the one whose persuasive influence we have just recorded was not less auspicious. The weather seemed to have changed its usual character, transporting to the banks of the Yeo and the Parret the same atmospheric conditions that define the Loire or the Arno. After finishing her tea, Valentia Seldom strolled pensively along the vicarage terrace, pausing to pluck the petals of a wilted flower or to gaze with a slight, gloomy frown at the orchard grass. Her slender, upright figure, dressed in black silk, created a striking contrast to the lush green foliage surrounding her, with ruby‑coloured roses on one side and yellow buttercups on the other. But the old lady was in no peaceful frame of mind. Occasionally, she impatiently tapped the gravel with her ebony stick, while the hand that toyed with the trinkets at her side mechanically opened and closed its fingers beneath the Mechlin‑lace wristband. With an irritable start, she turned to greet Francis Taxater, who had just been led to her by the little servant. With his usual, unflappable gravitas, he approached her, walking leisurely along the bloom‑lined edge, one shoulder slightly higher than the other, his eyes firmly set on the ground. His prominent bishop‑like chin was set more firmly than ever that afternoon, and a grey waistcoat beneath his shabby black coat was drawn tight across his well‑defined stomach. His coal‑black eyes, further darkened by the hat’s shadow, glanced furtively to right and left as he advanced. Like those disciplined by strict Catholic self‑control, his head never even inclined toward the keen scrutiny of those diplomatic eyes. He could easily have been mistaken for a French bishop of aristocratic birth, discreetly cloaking himself in the attire of a secular scholar. All of him – from the dignified, erudite sweep of his brow down to the small, satyr‑like toes – exuded the air of both courtier and priest, of the learned scholar and the urbane pilgrim of holy conclaves. His small white hand, plump and exquisitely shaped, rested heavily on his cane. In every movement and gesture he carried an inexplicable air of dramatic weight and importance—an aura that only seasoned diplomats can wield without it slipping into mere affectation. It was obvious that he, at any rate, according to Mr. Quincunx's favourite discrimination, "knew Latin." He seemed to have slid, as it were, into this commercial modern world, from among the contemporaries of Bossuet. One felt that his authors were not Ibsen or Tolstoy, but Horace and Cicero. One also felt that Mr. Romer himself could not match him in sheer psychological astuteness. Between the man of modern wisdom and the man of ancient wisdom, any conflict that might arise would be uniquely fascinating. If Mr. Taxater truly stood on the angelic side, he did so carrying the full weight of its organized hierarchy. If he were to channel his strength toward the path of “meekness,” it would do so with a calm, steady force—devoid of feverish or spasmodic flare‑ups. If Satan threw a Borgia in Mr. Taxater's path, that Borgia, it appeared, would find his Machiavel. " “Yes, it’s a lovely day again,” the old lady said, ushering her visitor to a seat and settling beside him. But what is our naughty Monsignor doing, playing truant from his consistory? I thought you would be in London this week—at the Eucharist Conference your people are holding? Is it to the loveliness of the weather that we owe this pleasant surprise?" Given the two interlocutors’ formal, old‑fashioned manner, one might have expected Mr. Taxater to reply in a tone evoking Ivanhoe or the Talisman: “A truce to such jesting, Madam!” No doubt if he had, the lady would hardly have discerned any anachronism. As a matter of fact he did not answer her question at all, but substituted one of his own. " I met Vennie in the village," he said. " Do you think she is happier now, in her new English circle?" " Ah! "My friend," she cried in a nervous voice, "all afternoon I’ve been thinking of Vennie." No, I cannot say I think she is happier. I wonder if it is one thing; and then I wonder if it is another. I cannot get to the bottom of it and it worries me. " " I expect it is her nerves," said the diplomatist. " Though the sun is warm, a steady east wind has been blowing lately, and, as you know, I attribute most of our agitation to its presence. It will not do, Mr. Taxater; it will not do! It may be the east wind with you and me. It is not the east wind with Vennie. Something is troubling her. I wish I could discern what it is?" " She isn't by any chance being vexed by some theological dispute with the Vicar, is she? I know how seriously she takes all his views. And his views are, if I may say so, decidedly confusing. Don't misunderstand me, dear lady. I respect Mr. Clavering and admire him. I like the shape of his head; especially when he wears his beretta. But I cannot feel much confidence in his wisdom in dealing with a sensitive child like your daughter. He is too impulsive. He is too dogmatic. He lives too entirely in the world of doctrinal controversy. Living solely on theology is fraught with peril. We have to learn to live for Religion; and that is a much more elaborate affair. That extends very far, Mrs. Seldom." The old lady let her stick slide to the ground and clasped her hands together. " I want to ask you one thing, Mr. Taxater. And I implore you to be quite direct with me. You do not think, do you, that my girl is tending towards your church—towards Rome? I confess it would be an enormous blow to me—perhaps the harshest I’ve ever felt—if anything of that sort were to happen. I know you are tolerant enough to let me speak like this without scruple. “I cherish you, my dear friend—” A soft blush spread across Valentia’s ivory‑hued cheeks, and she lifted her hand, as if to lay it gently upon her companion’s arm. I like you yourself, and have the utmost confidence in you. But Oh, it would be a terrible shock to me if Vennie became a Roman Catholic. I know she will join a convent, and that prospect is more than I can bear. The accumulated distress of many years was in the old lady's voice and tears stood in her eyes. " I know it is silly," she went on as Mr. Taxater steadily regarded the landscape. " But I cannot help it. I do so hope—Oh, I can't tell you how much—that Vennie will marry and have children. It is the secret burden of my life, the thought that, with this frail little thing, our ancient race should disappear. | Two vast crescents crept toward each other, straightening out, sluggishly diminishing the opening through which sunlight and warmth poured down. Hendley could not tear his eyes away. Alone and isolated amid the stunned hush of the airfield, he felt the roof seal around him, gripping him with a sharp, physical ache. The two closing crescents pressed like gigantic pistons, compressing the daylight into a razor‑thin glow before the roof panels slammed shut. Sickened, Hendley tore his gaze away. He saw doors opening at intervals around the wide circle of the landing field. Green‑uniformed guards advanced toward him from each doorway, wielding weapons he could not identify from a distance. He stood rigid, his body refusing to flee a second time. The green cordon of guards tightened around him, shrinking the circle of their confinement. He cast a pain‑stained glance toward the roof dome, now a blank, sealed expanse of gray that had, moments earlier, blazed with dazzling brilliance. A deep chill made him shiver. He glanced one last time at the tightening circle of guards around him, and gradually knelt. His rebellion had ended. The trial was brief. Hendley spent the first three days locked in a plain, window‑free chamber of the Judicial Center. A solitary, one‑piece pad of plastifoam stood ready for him to lie on. The foam was engineered to remain resilient and comfortable when undamaged. Tearing it was almost impossible, and even if that were achieved, the compromised foam web would disintegrate. It could not serve as a weapon in any circumstance, whether aimed at others or at oneself. Since it breathed, it wouldn’t smother even when held over a face. The cell was otherwise empty. He was removed from the room for periodic interrogations, some of which were conducted while drugs were administered. Before the trial began, he knew that every thought in his mind had been thoroughly scooped out and examined. All would be presented in evidence. Both his uniform and the visitor’s identity disc were confiscated. He wondered whether he would be ushered into the courtroom unclothed. On the fourth day, he was issued a plain, newly introduced uniform—a pale gray hue. He was transferred to another room. Here there was one window. Even though the window was sealed with indestructible plastic, he could look out and hear the sounds outside through a speaker embedded in the barrier. The chamber perched far above street‑level, overlooking the sprawling underground city. At first, as he listened to and watched the city’s familiar bustle spill across the streets, he felt a peculiar sense of rightness—a feeling of returning to his own element. His senses were lulled by the sights and sounds he had always known: the soft artificial sky of the illuminated roof, the rumble of walking, tube traffic, and hurried feet; the murmur of conversation; and the faint scent of chemically‑cleaned air. Most of all, he treasured the knowledge that he was enclosed, contained within the city’s gigantic womb. Within a few moments, Hendley felt unsettled by the crowded, hurried throngs, even though he was not physically among them. The cacophony and chaos left his head throbbing. The city seemed oppressively close and warm. No patch of cool shade existed anywhere for the eye to rest. He sensed a sterile emptiness across the endless expanse of stone, glass, plastic, and metal—no patch of grass or living plant to soften the cold surface. He longed for the jagged contours of the countryside, the wide, unconfined spaces, and the unanticipated gusts of wind he’d so abruptly taken for granted in the Freeman Camp. He felt like a minuscule being trapped within the interlocking cogs of a vast, faceless engine deep beneath the earth. He switched off the speaker, savoring the quiet of his cell, and ultimately refrained from looking out the window. The trial began on the fifth day. Clad in his gray uniform, Hendley stepped into the antiseptic white amphitheater. As he was led into the courtroom’s central seat, the spectators behind glass fixed their gaze on him. He was taken aback to find an additional vacant seat beside his. The surprise quickly turned into shocked dismay when a second gray‑clad figure was escorted into the courtroom. He rose, dumbfounded, as ABC‑331 settled into the seat beside him. What are you doing here?" he exclaimed. " How did they find—" He broke off. They had scoured out his mind. They knew everything. All the fallout tied to his first forbidden adventure beyond the museum’s perimeter. Ann said, “It doesn’t matter,” trying to soothe him. It's all right. This is precisely how I want it. But they can't—you've done nothing! " She smiled a little. " Did you think you had broken the rule all by yourself on that first day? But they wouldn't prosecute you for that alone. There's more. "You've turned me into a misfit, too." She spoke with no regret, her voice tinged even with a hint of pride. I was withdrawn from my—my work. There were complaints that I was—uncooperative. Do you understand, Hendley?" As the full significance of her speech settled in, a surge of emotion rose, swelling and filling his chest. That explains why you haven’t been in the show! Yes, that's why. When I learned of your arrest—now plastered across every news outlet and the subject of a flurry of attention—I beat them to it before they could come for me. I gave myself up as an accomplice. " Hendley began to protest, but Ann rushed ahead, leaving him no chance to speak. Had you not tried to see me, the awful man wouldn’t have caught you in the camp. It's because of me you're here at all. Don't you know how important that is yet? There is nowhere else I’d rather be than with you. Hendley sank into the chair beside her. He reached out impulsively to grip her hand. A stern voice intruded. Hendley looked up toward the bench opposite the two chairs where the accused sat. The judge, grim in visage, fixed his gaze on them and declared, “The accused shall remain silent.” This court will now come to order. " At the moment the trial’s opening ceremony began, Hendley found himself thinking of Ann’s mention of Nik. The sanctuary he’d built beneath Hendley’s identity would have exploded around him. He would undoubtedly have been seized, with the likely outcome that he’d be sent back to the Freeman Camp. Hendley smiled grimly. At the judge’s summons, two beige‑clad men approached the bench. One was assigned to act as the defense’s pleader, and the other took on the role of the prosecution’s advocate. There was also a bailiff, a cohort of guards, and along one wall a bank of twelve computers—six in each of two rows. Each was of a different design and manufacture. These, Hendley knew, were the jurors. Although these trials were uncommon within the Organization, they weren’t unheard of, and he was familiar with the system. He assumed that the uncommonness might explain the packed spectator gallery. Ann whispered that the flood of news coverage had brought them here, as if she could read his thoughts. It wasn't just about you—it also concerned the man whose disc you were wearing. There's been a lot of furor over BAM. They are accused of sabotage, a charge that has stirred great excitement. She paused. She nodded toward the jury and asked, “Why are there twelve of them?” It's an old tradition. " " Wouldn't one of them do?" " Yes. A more sophisticated computer could even generate twelve distinct sets of calculations, for that reason. Still, it’s the traditional practice—this has always been the way it’s done. The two pleaders began to present their cases. They spoke swiftly and without emotion—emotions were excluded from the computers that would render the verdict, deemed inconsistent with absolute justice. For the bulk of the morning, the prosecution’s exposition dominated the proceedings, laying out a comprehensive case that swallowed the entire day's court time. Its weight of evidence was exhaustive. At noon the court recessed. Hendley was escorted back to his cell, where a spare meal awaited him. When the trial resumed, he saw that Ann was paler and more drawn than before. The defense offered no rebuttal to the evidence, instead emphasizing the shared instability of morale between the two accused and the chain of events beyond their control that had led them to violate the Organization’s rules. The defense was palpably weak. The dawning hopelessness of their case settled upon Hendley. The defense rested. Two legal computers were brought into the courtroom and hooked up to the jury. | 0.1 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Powys, John Cowper | Charbonneau, Louis | 53157 | 70962 | Powys, John Cowper_[Wood and Stone: A Romance]_1500_10_0.3 | Charbonneau, Louis_[The Mystery of Mary Stuart]_1500_44_0.6 |
"Oh, nobody," I said, turning to smile, but not turning quickly enough. " What's the matter with you?" asked the Blight sharply. " Nothing, nothing at all," I said, and straightway the Blight thought she wanted to go home. The thunder of the Declaration was still rumbling in the poplar grove. " That's the Hon. Sam Budd," I said. " Don't you want to hear him?" " I don’t care who he is, I’m not interested in hearing from him, and I consider you hateful. Ah, dear me, it was more serious than I thought. There were tears in her eyes, and I led the Blight and the little sister home—conscience-stricken and humbled. Still, I would confront that young jackanape engineer and let him know that anyone who displeases the Blight must face me. I would take him by the neck and pound some sense into him. I found him lofty, uncommunicative, and utterly alien to any sense of what was going on; I had no right to pry into anyone’s business, so I did nothing but go back to lunch, where I discovered the Blight upstairs and a small sister looking indignant. You just let them alone," she said severely. " Let who alone?" I said, lapsing into the speech of childhood. " You—just—let—them—alone," she repeated. " I've already made up my mind to that. " " Well, then!" she said, with an air of satisfaction, but why I don't know. I went back to the poplar grove. The Declaration was over and the crowd was gone, but there was the Hon. Samuel Budd wiped his brow with one hand, slapped his thigh with the other, and was about to perform a pigeon‑wing on the turf. He turned goggles on me that literally shone triumph. " He's come—Dave Branham's come!" he said. " He's better than the Wild Dog. I've been trying him on the black horse and, Lord, how he can take them rings off! Ha, won't I get into them fellows who wouldn't let me off this morning! Oh, yes, I agreed to bring in a dark horse, and I'll bring him in all right. That five hundred is in my clothes now. You see that point yonder? Well, there's a hollow there and bushes all around. That's where I'm going to dress him. I've got his clothes all right and a name for him. This thing is a-goin' to come off accordin' to Hoyle, Ivanhoe, Four-Quarters-of-Beef, and all them mediaeval fellows. Just watch me! " I began to get newly interested, for that knight's name I suddenly recalled. In the Kentucky hills, Little Buck—Wild Dog’s brother—told us he had been practicing with the Wild Dog, noting him as “mighty good, but not a longside of Mart.” So the Hon. Sam might indeed have a suitable substitute, and as a devoted disciple of Sir Walter, I believed his knight would at least rival, in splendor, any of those who rode with King Arthur in days of old. At lunch the Blight sat in quiet stillness, just as the little sister, and my attempt at levity turned out to be a regrettable failure. So I gave news. " The Hon. Sam has a substitute." No curiosity and no question. " Who—did you say? Why, Dave Branham, a friend of the Wild Dog. Don't you remember Buck telling us about him?" No answer. " Well, I do—and, by the way, I saw Buck and one of the big sisters just a while ago. Her name is Mollie. Dave Branham, you will recall, is her sweetheart. The other big sister had to stay at home with her mother and little Cindy, who's sick. Of course, I didn't ask them about Mart—the Wild Dog. They knew I knew and they wouldn't have liked it. The Wild Dog's around, I understand, but he won't dare show his face. Every policeman in town is on the lookout for him." I thought the Blight's face showed a signal of relief. " I'm going to play short-stop," I added. " Oh!" said the Blight, with a smile, but the little sister said with some scorn: "You! " " I'll show you," I said, and I told the Blight about base-ball at the Gap. We introduced baseball to the region, and the valley and mountain boys—swift runners who threw like rifle shots after constant practice with stones and were as hard as nails—picked up the game quickly and with great ease. We beat them all the time at first, but now they were beginning to beat us. We had a league now, and this was the championship game for the pennant. " It was right funny the first time we beat a native team. Of course, we got together and cheered 'em. They assumed we were cheering for ourselves, so they blushed, rushed together, and howled for about half an hour. The Blight almost laughed. " Initially, whenever we went out of town we had to carry our guns, and that almost sparked several fights. Oh!" said the Blight excitedly. " Do you think there might be a fight this afternoon?" " Don't know," I said, shaking my head. " It's pretty hard for eighteen people to fight when nine of them are policemen and there are forty more around. Still the crowd might take a hand. " This, I saw, quite thrilled the Blight and she was in good spirits when we started out. " Marston doesn't pitch this afternoon," I said to the little sister. " He plays first base. He's saving himself for the tournament. He's done too much already." The Blight merely turned her head while I was speaking. " And the Hon. Sam will not act as umpire. He wants to save his voice—and his head. " Because the grandstand’s seats were now bathed in sunshine, I left the girls in an empty bandstand perched on stilts beneath trees on the south side of the field, positioned along a line roughly midway between third base and the short‑stop spot. No sport can match the fervor that a country‑side baseball game stirs, and I’ve never seen that passion eclipsed—save for the excitement of the tournament that followed that afternoon. The game was close and Marston and I assuredly were stars—Marston one of the first magnitude. " The scoreboard stayed a perfect “goose‑egg” on both sides until the end of the fifth inning, when the engineer knocked a home run. Spectators flung their hats into the trees, barked hoarsely, and I watched several elderly mountaineers, whose grasp of baseball was as limited as their knowledge of the obsolete Greek digamma, go wild in the contagious frenzy. During those innings, I helped earn two doubles and drove three “daisy cutters” to first base, despite the boos I received from the opposing crowd. Because of my glasses, they called me “Four‑eyes” until halfway through the ninth inning, when we were on the field with a 4‑to‑3 lead and a new nickname emerged. It was then that a small, fat boy clutching a paper megaphone longer than he was waddled out almost to first base, leveled his trumpet at me, and thundered out into a sudden silence: “Hello, Foxy Grandpa!” That was too much. My nerves were frayed, and with three people on base and two outs, a quick grounder rattled my way; I lunged for it, went to the ground, and, from my knees, hurling it wildly toward first. Suddenly, shouts of horror, anger and distress erupted from all sides, and my heart stopped—I'd lost the game—and then Marston leapt—surely from about four feet up—caught the ball in his left hand, then dropped down onto the bag. The sounds of his foot striking the ball and the runner's foot hitting it were almost simultaneous, but the umpire ruled that Marston’s foot had touched it first. Then bedlam! One of my brothers was the umpire, and the opposing team's captain strode menacingly toward him, followed by two of his players brandishing baseball bats. As I started off myself towards them I saw, with the corner of my eye, another brother of mine start in a run from the left field, and I wondered why a third, who was scoring, sat perfectly still in his chair, particularly as a well-known, red-headed tough from one of the mines who had been officiously antagonistic ran toward the pitcher's box directly in front of him. | The boy had been taunted until his own father's scorn had stirred his proud independence into stubborn resistance and intensified his resolution to do what he pleased and what he thought was right. Yet Chad was certain she would never understand him. She would never understand why he cherished a government that had once abandoned her people to savages and forced both her state and his to seek aid from a foreign land. To her, he would also be tearing apart the hearts that had been most tender to him in the world, and that was all. He dared not contemplate the fate she was destined to hand him. If he raised a hand against the South, he would be striking the heart of all he loved most, for which he owed his deepest devotion. If he acted against the Union, it would strike at the very core of who he was best. Within him surged the pure spirit that birthed the nation, fighting to preserve its very existence. Ah, God! What path should he tread—what choice must he make? Revised sentence
"Off to war, Chad waged his battle all summer, wavering one way and then the other—fighting it in secret until the illusion of neutrality faded, giving way to the grim specter of war—until, with both hands, Kentucky drew a sword and prepared to plunge both sides into its own stout heart." When Sumter fell, she shook her head with unwavering resolve, denying the pull of both North and South. Crittenden, standing in the stead of Union loyalists and mourning the late Clay, pleaded with the State to stay out of the fratricidal conflict. From mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters across thirty-one counties came one earnest, piteous appeal. Neutrality—when it was to be held inviolate—was the answer to both the North’s and the South’s pleas; yet, as Kentucky declared, armed neutrality was also required. The State had no moral right to secede, and the Nation had no constitutional power to coerce; if the North and the South abandoned their duties and waged war, they should keep their battles off her soil. Soon the State Guards marched into camp while the Home Guards were held in reserve, yet none in the Commonwealth could ignore the fact that the State Guards had already pledged loyalty to the Confederacy, whereas the Home Guards aligned themselves with the Union. This took place in May. In June, Federal recruits were lining up along the Ohio River, while Confederate troops were mustering just beyond the border of Dixie, an area that begins in Tennessee. Within a month after Bull Run, Stonewall Jackson rode his horse and watched the routed Yankees, praying for fresh men so he could continue his march toward the Capitol, while the North awoke with a gasp at the specter of a sixty‑day riot. Within a fortnight, Camp Dick Robinson sprang up along the Bluegrass line, constituting the first breach of the state’s neutrality, and it openly beckoned Union recruits with both hands. Soon an order to disarm the State Guards circulated, and on that very day the Guards readied themselves for the South. On that day the crisis struck the Deans’, and Chad Buford settled on his decision. When the Major and Miss Lucy slipped to bed, he quietly left the house, crossed the yard and the pike, followed the creek half‑consciously toward the Deans', until the glow from Margaret’s window caught his eye, climbed the worm fence, and settled with his head leaning against a forked stake, hat in his lap. It seemed likely he would never see her again. He planned to send her a note the next morning, asking if he could, but he dreaded what the reply might bring. Several times his longing eyes watched her shadow glide past the curtain; when she was gone he closed his eyes and sat motionless, unsure how long he'd remained still, and when he finally rose the midnight chill stiffened him, leaving his posture unchanged. He returned to his room, drafted a note to Margaret, tore it in frustration, and then retired to bed. He barely slept that night, and when the morning light leached its glow through his window, he listlessly rose, plunged his hot head into a bowl of water, and slipped away to the barn. As he eased the barn door open, his little mare whinnied in greeting. He pressed a warm, reassuring hand across the girl's neck. He sighed and said, “Good‑bye, little girl.” He began to address her by name, but then abruptly ceased. Margaret gave the beautiful creature the name \"Dixie.\" The servants were bustling about. “Good‑morning, Mars Chad,” each one said, shaking his hand and simply announcing that he was going away that morning. Only old Tom posed a question to him. "Oh God, Mars Chad," said the old fellow, "Old Mars Buford can’t get along without you." Will you be coming back soon? I’m not sure, Uncle Tom,” Chad replied, his voice tinged with sorrow. Where are you going, Mars Chad? I am enlisting in the army. De ahmy?" The old man's lips curled into a faint, weather‑worn smile. Are you going to fight the Yankees? I’m set to fight alongside the Yankees. The old driver looked as if he had not heard correctly. You’re fooling this old man, Mars Chad, ain’t you? Chad shook his head, and the old man straightened himself a little. "I’m sorry to hear it, sir," he said, with dignity, before turning back to his work. That morning, Miss Lucy felt ill and chose not to come down for breakfast. The boy's pallor and haggard appearance prompted the Major to look at him with concern. Chad, what's troubling you? Are you—?" " I could not find rest last night, Major. A faint chuckle slipped from the Major’s lips. It seems you haven’t been getting enough sleep lately. I suspect I wouldn’t act that way either if I were in your position. Chad offered no reply. Following breakfast, he joined the Major on the porch, breathing in the crisp, sunlit air. The Major smoked his pipe, occasionally pulling the stem from his mouth to bark an order as a servant passed beneath his gaze. "Chad, what tidings do you bring?" Mr. Crittenden has returned. Rewritten sentence:
"Old Lincoln—what did he say?" Camp Dick Robinson had been established by Kentuckians for Kentuckians, yet he doubted that the state wished for its removal. Well, by ——! after his promise. Rewritten sentence:
"What did Davis remark?" If Kentucky opens its northern border to invasion, it must keep its southern gate open for defense. “You’re absolutely right,” growled the Major, satisfaction in his voice. "Governor Magoffin had asked Ohio and Indiana to join an effort to convene a peace congress," Chad added. Well?" " Neither governor yielded. Listen, boy—now is the hour. The moment had arrived. I'm heading off this morning, Major. The Major didn’t even lift his head. He whispered quietly, “I thought this would happen.” Chad’s pallor deepened, and he steadied his resolve to confront the impending revelation. I had already spoken to Lieutenant Hunt," the Major went on. He hopes to reach the rank of captain and claims he could promote you to lieutenant. You could assign that boy, Brutus, as a body servant. He slammed his fist onto the porch railing. If I could, I would give the rest of my life to be ten years younger than I am now. Major, I'm heading into the Union Army. The Major’s pipe teetered on the brink, barely clutching his lips. Grasping the armrests of his chair with both hands, he turned slowly, his gaze wide with stunned disbelief—as if the boy had struck him from behind—and, without a word, stared intently into Chad’s anguished face. The keen old eye stared only a moment before seeing the truth; then, in silence, the old man turned away. His fingers shook on the chair’s back, then slipped into his pockets as he ate a ragged breath through his nose. Chad had bared his spirit for the anticipated outbreak, yet none came. Above them, a bee buzzed, its wings beating in a steady, low hum. A yellow butterfly flitted past, weaving a restless zigzag across the air. Blackbirds sang a restless chorus amid the firs. The peacock’s screech sliced across the yard as a ploughman’s lament wailed over the fields: “Trouble, O Lawd!” There’s nothing but trouble in the land of Canaan. The boy knew he had inflicted a mortal wound on his old friend. He pleaded, “No, Major.” You can’t even begin to imagine the struggle I’ve fought to resist this. I endeavored to stand with you. I thought I was. I joined the Rifles. I first realized I could not fight the South, and then I understood that I had to fight for the North. My heart is nearly shattered whenever I reflect on all that you have done. The Major seized the room with an imperious wave of his hand. He was no type of man who would listen to his favors being recounted, let alone bring them up himself. He straightened and got up from his chair. | 0.6 | Historical fiction | Fox, John | Fox, John | 324 | 2059 | Fox, John_[A Knight of the Cumberland]_1500_10_0.2 | Fox, John_[The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come]_1500_39_0.9 |
A hideous yellow face with oblique squinting eyes, appeared in the aperture. I was immobile and powerless, unable to think or act. Instinctively, Nayland Smith delivered a fierce kick to the head protruding from the trap. A sickening, crushing noise, broken by a muffled snap, betrayed a fractured jawbone, and, without a word or cry, the Chinaman fell. The trap dropped with a clang, and I heard his body thud against the stone steps below. Yet we were nowhere. Karamaneh slipped through one of the corridors like a bird, vanishing as Dr. Fu‑Manchu—his upper lip curled high above his teeth in the manner of a furious jackal—emerged from the opposite end. This way!" Smith cried, his voice rising almost to a shriek, “This way!”—and led us toward the room overhanging the steps. We sprinted out in panic, only to discover that this escape had also been cut off. In the dim darkness a group of yellow men emerged, and despite the gloom, the curved blades of the knives they wielded glinted menacingly. The corridor teemed with bandits! Smith and I turned together. The trap rose again, and the Burman who had tied me was scrambling up beside Dr. Fu‑Manchu, who stood there watching us—a shadowy, sinister figure. Petrie, the game’s over! Smith muttered. After a protracted struggle, Fu‑Manchu emerged victorious. Not entirely!" I cried. I yanked the police whistle from my pocket and pressed it to my lips, but even as the pause was brief, the dacoits were already upon me. A sinewy brown arm darted over my shoulder, snatching the whistle from my grasp. Then a maelstrom of fighting erupted around Smith and me, pulling us deeper into a swirling whirlpool of blood‑lustful eyes, yellow fangs, and glinting blades. I had a vague impression that Fu‑Manchu’s rasping voice finally cut through the turmoil, and with my wrists bound behind me I emerged from the struggle to find myself lying beside Smith in the passage—only to realize the Chinaman must have ordered his bloody men to take us alive, for I escaped with nothing more than bruises and a few superficial cuts. The place was deserted once again, and the two of us, heavy‑breathing like captured warriors, realized we were alone with Dr. Fu‑Manchu. Unforgettable was the scene: a dimly lit passage whose ends were shrouded in shadow, with the tall, yellow‑robed silhouette of the Satanic Chinaman towering over us where we lay. He had slipped back into his usual calm, and as I observed him in the dimness I was struck anew by the sheer intellectual power he radiated. His brow bore the mark of a genius, his features exuded the aura of a natural ruler; even in that instant I could still pause to recall that, aside from the unmistakable evil in his expression, his face was unmistakably that of Seti, the mighty pharaoh on display in the Cairo Museum. Down the passage, the doctor's marmoset leapt and gambolled. With a shrill, whistling cry, it leapt onto his shoulder, grasping the sparse neutral‑colored hair of his crown with its tiny fingers, and bent forward to peer grotesquely into that still, dreadful face. Dr. Fu‑Manchu stroked the small creature and cooed to it like a mother to her infant. It was only this crooning, coupled with Smith’s and my own breath‑laden sighs, that shattered the stillness. Suddenly a guttural voice erupted, “You arrive at a fortuitous moment, Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie—right when the greatest man in China is paying me a visit.” With my absence from home, I was granted a tremendous honour, only to find that at that very moment disgrace and calamity struck. Owing to my services to China—the nascent, forward‑looking China—I have been welcomed by the Sublime Prince into the Sacred Order of the White Peacock. Enthused by his tale, he flung his arms wide and hurled the chattering marmoset a full five yards down the corridor. O great god of Cathay! He whispered, sibilantly, “What sin have I committed that this misfortune has come to fall upon me?” Hear this, my two dear friends: the sacred white peacock that was brought to these misty shores in tribute to my everlasting glory has now been taken from me. Death is the punishment for this sacrilege; death is my destined fate, for it is what I rightly deserve. Silently, Smith gave my elbow a gentle bump. I understood the nudge as a reminder of his warning about the trivialities that disturb the intellectual life of China. In my own eyes, awe flooded me. Fu‑Manchu’s anger, grief, sorrow and resignation were genuine—no one watched him or heard his voice, and yet doubt could not arise. He went on, saying, “With a single act—nothing more—might I secure a gentler penalty.” With a single act and by relinquishing all my titles, lands, and honors, I hope to be granted the chance to devote myself fully to work that has only just begun. I now understood we were truly lost; these were confidences that should remain inviolate even in the face of death. He suddenly opened his blazing green eyes wide, directing their menacing glare toward Nayland Smith. The Director of the Universe," he murmured softly, "has finally yielded to me." To-night, you die! Tonight, the arch‑enemy of our caste will no longer exist. I lay this before you—the price I offer for redemption. I finally seized the awe‑inspiring reality—and its boundless potential. Dr. Fu‑Manchu was clapping his hands when I spoke. Stop!" I cried. He paused, and the strange film that occasionally veiled his eyes now obscured their green, giving him the appearance of a blind man. Dr. Petrie," he said softly, "I shall always listen to you with respect." “I have a proposition to put forward,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Grant us our freedom, and I shall restore your broken honor and the sacred peacock. Dr. Fu‑Manchu leaned close until his face hovered over mine, revealing the countless lines that formed an intricate network across his yellow skin. Speak!" he hissed. " You lift my heart from the shadows of its depths! "I can restore your white peacock," I declared; "only I know where it is," and I refused to shrink before his close stare. "Upright, he struck the tall figure; above him, Fu‑Manchu flung his arms, and an exultant glow lit up his now wide, cat‑like eyes." O god!" He shouted frantically, “O god of the Golden Age!” I rise like a phoenix from my own ashes! He turned toward me. Quick! Quick! make your bargain! Put an end to my suspense! Smith stared at me in a dazed manner, yet I dismissed his gaze and resolved to speak: “Release me immediately.” In only ten minutes it will be too late, and my friend will be left behind. One of your servants may accompany me and signal when I return with the peacock. Mr. Nayland Smith, or anyone else you choose, will meet me at the street corner where the raid took place last night. We’ll grant you a ten‑minute grace period, after which we’ll take whatever actions we see fit. Agreed!" cried Fu-Manchu. " “I ask only one thing of an Englishman: your word of honor.” I give you my word. I, too,” said Smith, hoarsely. Ten minutes later, Nayland Smith and I stood beside the cab, its yellow lights gleaming through the mist, and traded a frightened, frantic bird for our lives—capitulating to the enemy of the white race. Drawing on his trademark audacity and faith in the British code of honor, Dr. Fu‑Manchu arrived personally with Nayland Smith in response to the wailing cry of the dacoit who had been shadowing me. No word was uttered, except the cabman muttering a curse of astonishment; the Chinaman, his sinister servant at his elbow, bowed low and slipped away, as though heading toward the gods’ mocking laughter. I sprang upright from my bed in a sudden alarm. Since our narrow escape from Fu‑Manchu’s den, my nights had been repeatedly troubled, and now, as I crouched there, quivering nerves left me unsure whether the panic I sensed was born of a nightmare or something else. Surely a scream—a choking cry for help—had drifted to my ears; yet now, almost holding my breath in the nervous tension that besets someone when stirred to such a state, I listened, and the silence felt complete. I wondered whether I was dreaming when someone cried, “Help!” Petrie! Help!... " It was Nayland Smith in the room above me! | Now, a stranger in a strange land, I found myself _at home_. I cannot hope to fully convey the completeness of this recognition to my readers. I fled from Shepheard’s—brimming with cosmopolitan travelers and hosts of pretty women—in dismay, seeking the relative quiet of Mena House. But the only true joy I had ever known—even as I gradually came to realize it—came from the discordant cries and mingled aromas of perfume and decay that filled the native city. The desert lured me sweetly, yet it was the people, the shops, shuttered houses, the clamor, and the aromas of the Eastern streets that seized my heart. I watched with delighted fascination the procession of those commercial vehicles, long and towering on monstrous wheels, carrying an indescribable array of cargo along streets no wider than the hall of a modest suburban home. Watching the Parsees in Khân Khalîl with their carpets and gleaming silk wares, the Arab merchants, the coarse‑skinned tradesmen from the desert, and the smooth‑talking Cairenes holding embroidered cloths and gauzy yashmaks to allure the eye, I felt a tender, almost gentle pleasure—an emotion wholly unlike any I had previously experienced toward my fellow humans. Mendicants chanting the timeless refrain, “Bakshîsh!” The Sakhas, their skins tinged with Nile water, along with the other one‑hundred‑and‑one familiar figures of the quarter, filled me with a profound sense of delight. I deliberately lingered at the Mûski in the scorching afternoon, when it was comparatively free of Europeans and Americans. On the evening I was writing about, as I approached the end of the street that housed the leading silversmiths, I realised I was the only white man—apart from a handful of Greeks—in the immediate neighbourhood. As I neared the corner, a hurrying group of men exiting the street seized my attention. They glanced back nervously, as if wary of a rabid dog. A white‑bearded man on a tiny donkey appeared, glancing back apprehensively over his shoulder. In his frantic dash, he nearly collided with me; I hurriedly stepped aside to avoid him, only to knock an elderly woman onto the street. The man who had caused the accident fled at full speed, leaving me as the unwitting victim of my own clumsiness in a spot that suddenly seemed deserted. When the shopkeepers stayed inside their stores, they vanished, as if retreating into the most dark, hidden recesses of the stone walls that form the native emporiums. Pedestrians there were none. I bent down toward the old woman, who lay moaning at my feet, and as I did, I felt a sudden shrinkage in myself. How might I in words capture the loathing and revulsion that ran through me? I had never before seen a face so hideously grotesque in my entire career. The ragged black veil she wore tore from its brass fastenings as she fell, laying bare a face marked by appalling ugliness. Yellow, shrivelled, and toothless, it was barely human, yet its extreme age—its dismal, weathered visage—repelled me most profoundly. I was not suggesting the visage resembled that of an eighty‑year‑old woman; it was the face of one who had miraculously survived death for centuries. It was a witch‑like countenance, a visage steeped in the chill of death. As I shrank, she opened her eyes, moaning faintly, and groped with claw‑like hands as if darkness enshrouded her. Moreover, I saw a new pain—and an even keener one—flare up in those aged eyes. She sensed my involuntary expression of loathing. Those familiar with me can attest that I was neither an emotional person nor readily swayed by any human allure. Consequently, they will marvel at how the old woman’s pitiable glimmer transmuted my revulsion into a profound sorrow. I had roughly knocked her down from her feet, and now I hesitated to help her rise again. She was truly scorned and rejected by everyone. A wave of tenderness—beyond description and impossible to resist—swept over me. Tears welled in my eyes, and a sudden wave of deep remorse seized me. Poor old soul!" I whispered. I leaned forward, lifting the old woman's shriveled, ape‑like head onto my knee, then bent down to kiss her on the brow. I record this incident, yet even now, looking back on it and trying to recapture the frigid, solitary Saville Grainger who has left this world, I am struck by its wonder. I should have kept that impulse in check. I never imagined that such an impulse would stir me. Which phenomenon stood out as more remarkable? The consequence of my act—regretted the very instant it was performed—was singular. The ancient, ghastly creature let out a sigh I will never forget, and for a fleeting moment an almost tender expression crept over her face. Then, with great difficulty, she rose to her feet, raised her hands as if to bless me, muttered something in Arabic, and shuffled along the deserted street, stooping with each step. Apparently, the episode slipped by unnoticed. He was certainly well concealed, even if someone had witnessed it. Aware of a strange embarrassment intermingled with other turbulent emotions, I left the Street of the Silversmiths and found myself once again amid the ordinary bustle of the quarter. The memory of the kiss repelled me—I wanted to wipe my lips, but a lingering, almost yearning compassion seemed to forbid it. On one occasion, I yearned to be among ordinary, healthy, and somewhat dull‑minded Europeans. I yearned for the aroma of cigar smoke, the clatter of the cocktail shaker, and the sight of a pretty face. I hurried to Shepheard's. Later that night, after dinner, I stepped out of Mena House to locate Hassan Abd‑el‑Kebîr, the dragoman I’d hired for a camel‑bound journey to Sakhâra the next day. He promised to arrive at half‑past eight to set the morning’s departure time and iron out other details. I couldn’t locate him amid the dragomans and other natives lounging outside the hotel, so I slipped down the road toward the electric‑tram terminus to pass the time. I had taken only about ten paces when a tall native, garbed entirely in white from the tip of his nose to the brim of his turban, emerged from the darkness beside me, thrust a small parcel into my hand, pressed his brow, lips and chest with both hands, bowed, and slipped away. I saw him no more! In the middle of the street, I stared foolishly at the small parcel. It held a delicate strip of fine white silk, tied around a small, hard object. I was struck by the obvious that something had gone amiss. The package was surely not intended for me. After arriving back at the hotel, I stood by a lamp and unfastened the silk, which was lightly scented. Inside lay a heart‑shaped lapis‑lazuli gem, exquisitely set in gold and engraved with three Arabic letters, themselves inlaid in gold. I fixated on that singular ornament with a stare more intense than any I had ever wielded. Undoubtedly, the muffled native had made an odd mistake. It was a love token—clearly not intended for me. I stood there, awash in wonder, the lapis‑lazuli heart cradled in my palm, when Hassan’s voice shattered my reverie. Apologies for my lateness, sir, but—" the voice faltered and fell silent. I looked up. " Well?" I said. Then I said nothing else. Hassan Abd‑el‑Kebîr stared at the ornament in my hand as if I had held not a fine piece of native jewelry but the hideous husk of an adder or a scorpion. What's the matter?" I asked, still reeling from my surprise. Do you know who this amulet belongs to? He whispered something in guttural Arabic before answering my question. He answered, “It is the heart of lapis,” in a voice that sounded strangely foreign. It is the lapis’ heart. "So much is clear," I cried, laughing. But does it alarm you?" " “Please,” he murmured softly, extending a brown hand—“I will see.” I set the object in his palm, and he studied it with the awe of an orchid hunter staring at a freshly discovered species of Odontoglossum. What do the figures mean?" I asked. " They form the word “alf,” he replied. Alf?_ Somebody's name!" I said, still laughing. " In Arab it mean ten hundred," he whispered. | 0.6 | Adventure stories | Rohmer, Sax | Rohmer, Sax | 1183 | 41619 | Rohmer, Sax_[The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu]_1500_20_0.8 | Rohmer, Sax_[Michigan's Copper Country in Early Photos]_1500_24_0.8 |
She was looking toward the street, so that, with the book-shelves for a back-ground, her face was in profile, and I determined swiftly that if she were to wait on me she would be kept waiting as long as my money lasted. I did not want "The Log of the JOLLY POLLY," but I did want to hear the lovely lady speak, and especially I desired that the one to whom she spoke should be myself. "What is the price of this?" I asked. With magnificent self-control I kept my eyes on the book, but the lovely lady was so long silent that I raised them. To my surprise, I found on her face an expression of alarm and distress. With reluctance, and yet within her voice a certain hopefulness, she said, "Fifty dollars. " Fifty dollars was a death blow. I had planned to keep the young lady selling books throughout the entire morning, but at fifty dollars a book, I would soon be owing her money. I attempted to gain time. "It must be very rare!" I said. I was afraid to look at her lest my admiration should give offense, so I pretended to admire the book. "It is the only one in existence," said the young lady. "At least, it is the only one for sale! " We were interrupted by the approach of a tall man who, from his playing the polite host and from his not wearing a hat, I guessed was Mr. Hatchardson himself. He looked from the book in my hand to the lovely lady and said smiling, "Have you lost it?" The girl did not smile. To her, apparently, it was no laughing matter. "I don't know—yet," she said. Her voice was charming, and genuinely troubled. Mr. Hatchardson, for later I learned it was he, took the book and showed me the title-page. "This was privately printed in 1830," he said, "by Captain Noah Briggs. He distributed a hundred presentation copies among his family and friends here in New Bedford. It is a most interesting volume. " I did not find it so. For even as he spoke the young girl, still with a troubled countenance, glided away. Inwardly I cursed Captain Briggs and associated with him in my curse the polite Mr. Hatchardson. But, at his next words my interest returned. Still smiling, he lowered his voice. "Miss Briggs, the young lady who just left us," he said, "is the granddaughter of Captain Briggs, and she does not want the book to go out of the family; she wants it for herself." I interrupted eagerly. "But it is for sale?" Mr. Hatchardson reluctantly assented. "Then I will take it," I said. Fifty dollars is a great deal of money, but the face of the young lady had been very sad. Besides being sad, had it been aged, plain, and ill-tempered, that I still would have bought the book, is a question I have never determined. To Mr. Hatchardson, of my purpose to give the book to Miss Briggs, I said nothing. Instead I planned to send it to her anonymously by mail. She would receive it the next morning when I was arriving in New York, and, as she did not know my name, she could not possibly return it. At the post-office I addressed the "Log" to "Miss Briggs, care of Hatchardson's Bookstore," and then I returned to the store. I felt I had earned that pleasure. This time, Miss Briggs was in charge of the post-card counter, and as now a post-card was the only thing I could afford to buy, at seeing her there I was doubly pleased. But she was not pleased to see me. Evidently Mr. Hatchardson had told her I had purchased the "Log" and at her loss her very lovely face still showed disappointment. Toward me her manner was distinctly aggrieved. But of the "Log" I said nothing, and began recklessly purchasing post-cards that pictured the show places of New Bedford. Almost the first one I picked up was labelled "Harbor Castle. Residence of Fletcher Farrell." I need not say that I studied it intently. According to the post-card, Harbor Castle stood on a rocky point with water on both sides. It was an enormous, wide-spreading structure, as large as a fort. It exuded prosperity, opulence, extravagance, great wealth. I felt suddenly a filial impulse to visit the home of my would-be forefathers. "Is this place near here?" I asked. Miss Briggs told me that in order to reach it I should take the ferry to Fairharbor, and then cross that town to the Buzzards Bay side. "You can't miss it," she said. "It's a big stone house, with red and white awnings. If you see anything like a jail in ruffles, that's it. " It was evident that with the home I had rejected Miss Briggs was unimpressed; but seeing me add the post-card to my collection, she offered me another. "This," she explained, "is Harbor Castle from the bay. That is their yacht in the foreground. " The post-card showed a very beautiful yacht of not less than two thousand tons. Beneath it was printed "HARBOR LIGHTS; steam yacht owned by Fletcher Farrell." I always had dreamed of owning a steam yacht, and seeing it stated in cold type that one was owned by "Fletcher Farrell," even though I was not that Fletcher Farrell, gave me a thrill of guilty pleasure. I gazed upon the post-card with envy. "HARBOR LIGHTS is a strange name for a yacht," I ventured. Miss Briggs smiled. "Not for that yacht," she said. "She never leaves it. " I wished to learn more of my would-be parents, and I wished to keep on talking with the lovely Miss Briggs, so, as an excuse for both, I pretended I was interested in the Farrells because I had something I wanted to sell them. "This Fletcher Farrell must be very rich," I said. "I wonder," I asked, "if I could sell him an automobile?" The moment I spoke I noticed that the manner of Miss Briggs toward Me perceptibly softened. Perhaps, from my buying offhand a fifty-dollar book she had thought me one of the rich, and had begun to suspect I was keeping her waiting on me only because I found her extremely easy to look at. Many times before, in a similar manner, other youths must have imposed upon her, and perhaps, also, in concealing my admiration, I had not entirely succeeded. But, when she believed that, like herself, I was working for my living, she became more human. "What car are you selling?" she asked. "I am TRYING to sell," I corrected her, "the Blue Bird, six cylinder. " "I never heard of it," said Miss Briggs. "Nor has any one else," I answered, with truth. "That is one reason why I can't sell it. I arrived here this morning, and," I added with pathos, "I haven't sold a car yet! " Miss Briggs raised her beautiful eyebrows skeptically. "Have you tried?" she said. A brilliant idea came to me. In a side street I had passed a garage where Photaix cars were advertised for hire. I owned a Phoenix, and I thought I saw a way by which, for a happy hour, I might secure the society of Miss Briggs. "I am an agent and demonstrator for the Phoenix also," I said glibly; "maybe I could show you one?" "Show me one?" exclaimed Miss Briggs. "One sees them everywhere! They are always under your feet! " "I mean," I explained, "might I take you for a drive in one?" It was as though I had completely vanished. So far as the lovely Miss Briggs was concerned I had ceased to exist. She turned toward a nice old lady. "What can I show you, Mrs. Scudder?" she asked cheerily; "and how is that wonderful baby? " I felt as though I had been lifted by the collar, thrown out upon a hard sidewalk, and my hat tossed after me. Greatly shaken, and mentally brushing the dust from my hands and knees, I hastened to the ferry and crossed to Fairharbor. I was extremely angry. By an utter stranger I had been misjudged, snubbed and cast into outer darkness. For myself I readily found excuses. If a young woman was so attractive that at the first sight of her men could not resist buying her fifty-dollar books and hiring automobiles in which to take her driving, the fault was hers. I assured myself that girls as lovely as Miss Briggs were a menace to the public. They should not be at large. An ordinance should require them to go masked. For Miss Briggs also I was able to make excuses. Why should she not protect herself from the advances of strange young men? | They had halted within fifty yards of the railroad tracks, and as each special train, loaded with happy enthusiasts, raced past them he groaned. "The only one of us that showed any common-sense was Ernest," he declared, "and you turned him down. I am going to take a trolley to Stamford, and the first train to New Haven. " "You are not," said his sister; "I will not desert Mr. Winthrop, and you cannot desert me. " Brother Sam sighed, and seated himself on a rock. "Do you think, Billy," he asked, "you can get us to Cambridge in time for next year's game?" The car limped into Stamford, and while it went into dry-dock at the garage, Brother Sam fled to the railroad station, where he learned that for the next two hours no train that recognized New Haven spoke to Stamford. "That being so," said Winthrop, "while we are waiting for the car, we had better get a quick lunch now, and then push on. " "Push," exclaimed Brother Sam darkly, "is what we are likely to do. " After behaving with perfect propriety for half an hour, just outside of Bridgeport the Scarlet Car came to a slow and sullen stop, and once more the owner and the chauffeur hid their shame beneath it, and attacked its vitals. Twenty minutes later, while they still were at work, there approached from Bridgeport a young man in a buggy. When he saw the mass of college colors on the Scarlet Car, he pulled his horse down to a walk, and as he passed raised his hat. "At the end of the first half," he said, "the score was a tie. " "Don't mention it," said Brother Sam. "Now," he cried, "we've got to turn back, and make for New York. If we start quick, we may get there ahead of the last car to leave New Haven. " "I am going to New Haven, and in this car," declared his sister. "I must go—to meet Ernest. " "If Ernest has as much sense as he showed this morning," returned her affectionate brother, "Ernest will go to his Pullman and stay there. As I told you, the only sure way to get anywhere is by railroad train. " When they passed through Bridgeport it was so late that the electric lights of Fairview Avenue were just beginning to sputter and glow in the twilight, and as they came along the shore road into New Haven, the first car out of New Haven in the race back to New York leaped at them with siren shrieks of warning, and dancing, dazzling eyes. It passed like a thing driven by the Furies; and before the Scarlet Car could swing back into what had been an empty road, in swift pursuit of the first came many more cars, with blinding searchlights, with a roar of throbbing, thrashing engines, flying pebbles, and whirling wheels, and behind these, stretching for a twisted mile, came hundreds of others; until the road was aflame with flashing will-o'-the-wisps, dancing fire-balls, and long, shifting shafts of light. Miss Forbes sat in front, beside Winthrop, and it pleased her to imagine, as they bent forward, peering into the night, that together they were facing so many fiery dragons, speeding to give them battle, to grind them under their wheels. She felt the elation of great speed, of imminent danger. Her blood tingled with the air from the wind-swept harbor, with the rush of the great engines, as by a hand-breadth they plunged past her. She knew they were driven by men and half-grown boys, joyous with victory, piqued by defeat, reckless by one touch too much of liquor, and that the young man at her side was driving, not only for himself, but for them. Each fraction of a second a dazzling light blinded him, and he swerved to let the monster, with a hoarse, bellowing roar, pass by, and then again swept his car into the road. And each time for greater confidence she glanced up into his face. Throughout the mishaps of the day he had been deeply concerned for her comfort, sorry for her disappointment, under Brother Sam's indignant ironies patient, and at all times gentle and considerate. Now, in the light from the onrushing cars, she noted his alert, laughing eyes, the broad shoulders bent across the wheel, the lips smiling with excitement and in the joy of controlling, with a turn of the wrist, a power equal to sixty galloping horses. She found in his face much comfort. And in the fact that for the moment her safety lay in his hands, a sense of pleasure. That this was her feeling puzzled and disturbed her, for to Ernest Peabody it seemed, in some way, disloyal. And yet there it was. Of a certainty, there was the secret pleasure in the thought that if they escaped unhurt from the trap in which they found themselves, it would be due to him. To herself she argued that if the chauffeur were driving, her feeling would be the same, that it was the nerve, the skill, and the coolness, not the man, that moved her admiration. But in her heart she knew it would not be the same. At West Haven Green Winthrop turned out of the track of the racing monsters into a quiet street leading to the railroad station, and with a half-sigh, half-laugh, leaned back comfortably. "Those lights coming up suddenly make it hard to see," he said. "Hard to breathe," snorted Sam; "since that first car missed us, I haven't drawn an honest breath. I held on so tight that I squeezed the hair out of the cushions. " When they reached the railroad station, and Sam had finally fought his way to the stationmaster, that half-crazed official informed him he had missed the departure of Mrs. Taylor Holbrooke's car by just ten minutes. Brother Sam reported this state of affairs to his companions. "God knows we asked for the fish first," he said; "so now we've done our duty by Ernest, who has shamefully deserted us, and we can get something to eat, and go home at our leisure. As I have always told you, the only way to travel independently is in a touring-car. " At the New Haven House they bought three waiters, body and soul, and, in spite of the fact that in the very next room the team was breaking training, obtained an excellent but chaotic dinner; and by eight they were on their way back to the big city. The night was grandly beautiful. The waters of the Sound flashed in the light of a cold, clear moon, which showed them, like pictures in silver print, the sleeping villages through which they passed, the ancient elms, the low-roofed cottages, the town-hall facing the common. The post road was again empty, and the car moved as steadily as a watch. "Just because it knows we don't care now when we get there," said Brother Sam, "you couldn't make it break down with an axe. " From the rear, where he sat with Fred, he announced he was going to sleep, and asked that he be not awakened until the car had crossed the State line between Connecticut and New York. Winthrop doubted if he knew the State line of New York. "It is where the advertisements for Besse Baker's twenty-seven stores cease," said Sam drowsily, "and the bill-posters of Ethel Barrymore begin. " In the front of the car the two young people spoke only at intervals, but Winthrop had never been so widely alert, so keenly happy, never before so conscious of her presence. And it seemed as they glided through the mysterious moonlit world of silent villages, shadowy woods, and wind-swept bays and inlets, from which, as the car rattled over the planks of the bridges, the wild duck rose in noisy circles, they alone were awake and living. The silence had lasted so long that it was as eloquent as words. The young man turned his eyes timorously, and sought those of the girl. What he felt was so strong in him that it seemed incredible she should be ignorant of it. His eyes searched the gray veil. In his voice there was both challenge and pleading. "'Shall be together,'" he quoted, "'breathe and ride. So, one day more am I deified; who knows but the world may end to-night?'" The moonlight showed the girl's eyes shining through the veil, and regarding him steadily. "If you don't stop this car quick," she said, "the world will end for all of us. " He shot a look ahead, and so suddenly threw on the brake that Sam and the chauffeur tumbled awake. | 1 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Davis, Richard Harding | Davis, Richard Harding | 1808 | 69715 | Davis, Richard Harding_[The Log of the 'Jolly Polly']_1500_4 | Davis, Richard Harding_[The scarlet car; The Princess Aline]_1500_2 |
The Count silenced him with a wave of his hand. " You sat with us at this board, and since the Duke of Lotzen has been absent, you have witnessed our dead master regard Archduke Armand, in every respect, as his successor; on one occasion, as I saw you quietly note the exact wording on your cuff, he called Armand the one who would “come after.” Hence, I say, you are not honest with the Council. " " “I commend you, Your Lordship, for your keen powers of observation and memory,” Retz said smoothly; “they far outweigh my own, which I confess can falter in the face of miracles.” But with due modesty, I submit there is a very simple way to settle this question quickly and finally. Let us have the exact words of Henry's decree. I am well aware it is unprecedented for any but a Dalberg to see the Dalberg Laws; but we are facing an unprecedented condition. Never before has a Dalberg king failed to have a son to follow him. Now, we hearken back for generations, with a mysterious juggle intervening; and it is for him who claims the Throne to prove his title. Before the coming of the American there was no question that Lotzen was the Heir Presumptive. Did he lose the place when Armand became an Archduke? The decree alone can determine; let it be submitted to the Royal Council for inspection. " " The Minister of Justice is overdoing his part," said the old Count, addressing the other Ministers. " Neither he nor his department may dictate how the Dalbergs determine their succession, nor is it within our power to demand a review of the Book of Laws. So much for principle and ancient custom. The Archduke may relish affirming his claim by presenting the Laws to us; or, the Duke of Lotzen might contest the title, thereby forcing us—or the House of Nobles—to decide. But, as the matter stands now, the Council has no discretion. “We must recognize the eldest male Dalberg as King of Valeria; and as you surely know, only a Dalberg can contest that claim. Monsieur le Baron, are you speaking on behalf of the Duke of Lotzen?” Retz leaned back in his chair and laughed. " No, no, my lord, no, no!" he said. " I speak no more for Lotzen than you do for Armand. " " So it would seem—though not with the same motives," the Count sneered—then arose hastily. " The King, my lords, the King!" He exclaimed as the door in the far corner swung open, Armand stepped in alone, and a manservant followed—bearing a brass‑bound, black‑oak box inlaid with silver. The Council had never seen the box before, yet everyone instantly guessed what it held; and though they were all courtiers—except the old Count—they stared at it with such curiosity that the Archduke, amused at the Count’s glance, turned and beckoned the servant to step forward. "Place it before His Excellency, the Prime Minister," he said, and the room’s focus immediately shifted to Armand in genuine astonishment. The Count’s thin lips twitched ever so slightly, and for a brief instant his once‑faded blue eyes glittered with calm derision as they lingered over the Baron's face. And Retz, turning suddenly, caught the look and straightway realized he had been outplayed. He realized then that the Count had known all along of the Archduke’s intent to present the Laws to the Council that morning, and that his own persistence had given the weary diplomat an opportunity to demonstrate in the most striking way the unprecedented honor Armand was now bestowing upon them. It was maddening enough to be out‑maneuvered, but watching his own tactics seized and turned to buoy another’s victory struck at his pride; moreover, this was not the first time the Prime Minister had endured such a wound and left a score to settle. Be seated, my lords," said Armand, "and accept my apologies for my tardiness," and he took the chair at the head of the table. Count Epping drew his sword and raised it high. " Valeria hails the Head of the House of Dalberg as the King!" he cried. And back from the others, as their blades rang together above the table, came the echo: "We hail the Dalberg King! " It was the ancient formula, which had always been used to welcome the new ruler upon his first entrance to the Royal Council. It left another wound on Retz, thrusting him into a choice—play the fool now or the scoundrel later—while every eye, even the Archduke's, instinctively followed the others. Yet he had made it instantly, smiling mockingly at the Count; and his voice rang loud and his sword was the last to fall. Armand was unaware of this ancient ceremony, and its sudden surprise jolted him upright, hand raised in salute as his face and brow flushed while his fingers grew cold. It was for him to speak, he knew, yet speak he could not. However, when Count Epping led them, the courtiers pressed close, bowed low, and—just as they were about to kiss his hand—he withdrew and waved them back. “I thank you, my lords, from the depths of my heart,” he said gravely, “yet I am not yet ready to accept either homage or greeting.” They belong to him who is King of Valeria, and whether I be he I do not know. Because I am the eldest male, I am presumed to inherit; yet the sovereign may exercise full discretion to appoint any Dalberg as successor, and under the present extraordinary circumstances, he may have preferred to designate another heir. Therefore, I intend to present you with the Book of Laws so that you may examine its decrees and determine whom the Crown ultimately descends to. I am informed this is a proceeding utterly unknown; that the Dalberg Laws are seen only by Dalberg eyes. Since a rival claimant with a loyal following is inevitable, and ultimately the Laws will resolve our dispute, it is best that they be decided at once. If the authority declares me King of Valeria, I shall claim the Crown and its prerogatives; if not, I will pay homage to the true sovereign and join you in his service. He paused, and instantly General Duval flashed up his sword. " God save Your Royal Highness!" he cried. " God grant that you be King." As the others awaited their replies, swords clashed above the Archduke’s head; the corridor door swung open, and Ferdinand of Lotzen slipped into the room unseen. All night he rushed to the capital aboard a special train, anxious and fearful, because every hour in the interregnum was being counted as a day against the absent claimant’s right to the throne. When he was told at the station by Baron Rosen that the proclamation still had not been issued and the Council would convene at ten o’clock, his hopes revived, and he hurried toward the palace. Still, the scene before him offered a glimmer of hope, even as the words of the acclaim and the black box on the table left him puzzled. Why, with the Laws at their disposal, should there be any doubt as to who was King! So he leaned upon a chair and waited, a contemptuous smile on his lips, a storm of hate and anger in his heart. Those shouts, those swords, those ardent faces were all his—if it had not been for this foreigner, this American, this usurper, this thief. His fingers snapped around the sword's hilt, and for the briefest instant he felt the urge to thrust the blade into his rival's throat. Instead, he laughed; when the sound spread and the onlookers turned, he laughed again, scanning every face with his craftily sharp eyes, finding no trace of confusion or regret—only in Retz's. "What a fine picture, gentlemen," he snorted, "indeed, a fine picture—pray you let me spare it from my touch; yet I ask, since when has the Royal Council of Valeria turned to such private theatrics?" And Armand promptly gave him back his laugh. " Our cousin of Lotzen appears in good time," he said very softly. | On the other hand, how could anything have happened in the town which would prevent one of them from telephoning, or sending a message, or getting some sort of word to the Captain. " " Everything may seem shrouded in mystery, yet I dare say it is quite amenable to solution and explanation. The frightening thing is harmless, so I’m not inclined to be overly alarmed—just a little uneasy. At this moment Captain Carrington returned. " Here! take these," he said, giving each a revolver. " Let us hope we never need to use them, yet we should remain prepared. They set out together, but at the intersection of Queen and King Streets they went their separate ways. Remember! eleven o'clock at my house," said the Captain. " If any one of us is absent, the remaining two will know he needs assistance. Croyden went north on King Street. The November night was cold, and a fine layer of frost hung in the air. The moon, half‑shone and edging toward the bay, shed enough light to make walking easy, while the feeble street lamps failed to add to its glow. He crossed the town’s limits and stepped into the countryside. It was just ten o’clock when they separated—he planned to walk for half an hour and then return. He could walk a total of three miles—one and a half miles out and back—and still reach the Carrington house by eleven. He proceeded along the east side of the road, his eyes meticulously scanning the uncertain light, wary of overlooking any hint that might serve as a clue. For the allotted time, he searched but found nothing—he must return. He crossed to the west side of the road, turning toward home. A mile had passed, and a quarter more had followed; the town’s feeble lights flickered dimly ahead, when beside the track he spotted a small white object. The item was a woman’s handkerchief, and when he lifted it, a faint scent of violets clung to it. There might be a clue—a monogram on the corner, but he could not discern it in the darkness. He put it in his pocket and hastened on. A hundred feet farther, and his foot hit something soft. He groped about, with his hands, and found—a woman's glove. It, also, bore the odor of violets. At the first lamp‑post, he paused to examine the handkerchief; the monogram was plainly “E. C.,” and he recalled that violets was her favourite perfume. He pulled out the glove—a plain, soft children's glove—and found it had no distinguishing mark to aid him. He glanced at his watch. His time had almost expired. He slid the woman’s trinkets back into his pocket and hurried on. He arrived belatedly, and by the time he reached Ashburton, Captain Carrington and Macloud were on the verge of launching their pursuit. I found these!" He said, tossing the glove and handkerchief onto the table—“on the west side of the road, about half a mile from town.” Macloud picked them up. " The violets are familiar—and the handkerchief is Elaine's," said he. " I recognize the monogram as hers. " " What do you make of it?" Captain Carrington demanded. " Nothing—it passes me. " His glance sought Croyden's. A shake of the head was his answer. The Captain strode to the telephone. " I'm going to call in our friends," he said. " I think we shall need them. " After Croyden and Macloud left the Carrington house that evening, following their conversation and tea, Elaine and Davila lingered a little longer in the drawing‑room, re‑playing the events of the day in the way women often do. Presently, Davila went over to draw the shades. " How about a walk before we dress for dinner? she inquired. " I should like it, immensely," Elaine answered. They hurried upstairs, swapped into street clothes, and set out. "We’ll walk to the middle of town and then return," Davila said. It’s roughly a half‑mile one way, and there’s no danger as long as you stay within the town. Even in daylight, I refrain from venturing beyond it unaccompanied. Why?" asked Elaine. " Isn't Hampton orderly?" " Hampton is orderly enough. It refers to the enduring prejudice that has pervaded the South since the Civil War concerning Black people. Oh! I understand," said Elaine, shuddering. " I’m not suggesting that all Black men are bad; on the contrary, they are not. Many people may appear trustworthy, but truly reliable ones are exceedingly rare. The vast majority are worthless—and the worst thing on earth is a worthless person. I think I prefer only the lighted streets," Elaine remarked. " And you will be perfectly safe there," Davila replied. They marched briskly into the town centre, where King and Queen Streets converged around a wide circular block that, in typical Southern fashion, was infamously called “The Diamond.” Passing around this circle, they retraced their steps toward home. As they approached Ashburton, a car with its top up and side curtains drawn rolled up behind them, paused for a moment—looked unsure of its destination—then pulled up in front of the Carrington house. Two men stepped off the car, instructed the driver, and crossed the pavement toward the gate as the engine throbbed softly. Then they seemed to notice the women approaching, stepped back from the gate, and waited. I beg your pardon!" One of them raised his hat, bowed, and asked, “Can you tell me if this is Captain Carrington’s house?” It is," answered Davila. " Thank you!" said the man, standing aside to let them pass. " I am Miss Carrington—whom do you wish to see?" " Captain Carrington, is he at home?" " I’m not sure—if you come in, I’ll ask. You're very kind!" with another bow. He sprang forward and opened the gate. Davila smiled and thanked him, then she and Elaine slipped inside, leaving the strangers to trail behind. Immediately, each girl grappled with the shawl that had been flung over her from behind, snugly wrapping around her head and arms and muffling her cries to a mere whisper. Within an instant, their frantic attempts—heads veiled, arms clamped to their sides—proved futile as the men hauled and shoved them into the car’s boot, and the vehicle roared away. In an instant they were clear of the town; the driver opened the carriage, and they sped through the countryside at thirty miles an hour. Better give them some air," said the leader. " It doesn't matter how much they yell here. " He had been cradling Elaine in his lap, his arms pulling the shawl snugly around her. Now he loosed her, and unwound the folds. " “Please excuse the liberty we have taken,” he said as he freed her, “but there are—” crack! Elaine struck him squarely in the face with all her might, and as she was about to spring free and leap out, he seized her, pulled her back, caught her arms in the shawl that still clung to her, and bound them tightly to her side. Better be a little careful, Bill!" he said. " I sustained a slash to the upper jaw that made me see stars. I've been very easy with mine," his companion returned. " She'll not hand me one." Nonetheless, he made sure the shawl stayed snug on her arms. Here you are, madam; I hope you haven't been greatly inconvenienced. What do you mean by this outrage?" said Davila. " Don't forget, Bill!—mum's the word!" the chief cautioned. " "At least, we could be allowed to sit on the car’s floor," said Elaine. No matter what your plan, it is hardly necessary to keep us bound in this repulsive position. Will you make no effort to escape?" the chief asked. " No!" " I reckon that is a trifle overstated!" he laughed. " What about you, Miss Carrington?" Davila stayed silent, content to convey her thoughts with a glance that spoke volumes. We are pleased to fulfill your first request, Miss Cavendish. He seized a length of rope, looped it around her arms just outside the shawl, tied a running knot, and quietly lifted her from his lap onto the floor. I trust that is satisfactory?" he asked. " By comparison, eminently so. " " Thank you!" he said. " Do you, Miss Carrington, wish to sit beside your friend?" " If you please!" said Davila, with supreme contempt. He took the rope and tied her, likewise. " Very good, Bill!" he said, and they placed her beside Elaine. | 0.9 | Adventure stories | Scott, John Reed | Scott, John Reed | 40034 | 27454 | Scott, John Reed_[The Princess Dehra]_1500_8_0.4 | Scott, John Reed_[In Her Own Right]_1500_40_0.4 |
It was quiet that evening in the house of Cyrus Holland; the noises that living makes were muffled by life's awe of death, even sounds that could not disturb the dying guarded against by the sense of decorum of those living on. Downstairs were people who had come to inquire for the man they knew would not be one of them again. For forty years Cyrus Holland had been a factor in the affairs of the town. Freeport’s senior banker was an old‑fashioned type, lacking both the imagination and the daring to make himself rich or to turn his bank into an institution that exploited all the possibilities within its territory. In venturing days he remained cautious. His friends declared him sane and responsible, while younger men described him as limited—lacking the daring that defines a modern businessman. He had advised many men and always on the side of safety. No one had grown rich through his suggestions, but more than one had been saved by his counsels. When the town’s commercial life expanded, newer banks outstripped him, and although some praised him as a leading community figure, they were also implying that his cautiousness had capped his influence. Such a man, not a brilliant figure through his lifetime, would be lamented in his passing. They had long complained that he had squandered his opportunities, but now they would say he had never misused them—death, as always, compels the living to confront the true nature of the dying. Ruth did not go downstairs to see the people who were coming in. Ted was downstairs, and Flora Copeland—the unmarried cousin of the Hollands who had lived in the house for several years—was there. Once, in passing through the hall, she heard voices which she recognized. She stood there listening to them. It was so strange to hear them; and so good. She was hungry for voices she knew—old voices. A pause settled, and her heart quickened as she sensed they might be asking for her. But they broke that pause to say goodnight. She had received no message about anyone asking for her. Despite not seeing the visitors, she sensed an added oddity in the house, as her presence seemed to heighten the pause of ordinary life awaiting death. The nurse was one of the girls of the town, of a family Ruth knew. She had been only a little girl at the time Ruth went away. She was aware of a covert interest—something mysterious and forbidden—hidden beneath the young woman’s scrupulously professional conduct toward herself. She could see that to this decorous young person she was a woman out of another world. It hurt her, and it made her a little angry. She longed that this polished, proper young woman—stealing furtive glances as if peering at a forbidden secret—could truly grasp the world she inhabited. Still, she realized that the pressure was lighter than it might have been otherwise—perhaps because the room for death itself softened the living’s tendency to split themselves into good or bad, approved or condemned. With the approach of death there are likely to be only two classes—the living and the dead. Even after a few hours, despite the alienating circumstances, a bond appeared to have formed between her and the girl who attended to her father. Ruth and Ted and Flora Copeland had had dinner together. Her Cousin Flora had evidently pondered the difficult question of a manner with Ruth and was pursuing it scrupulously. Her plan was clearly indicated in her manner. She appeared to act as though nothing had occurred, yet simultaneously made it clear that she did not at all approve of the one to whom she was showing kindness. Her manner was that most dismal of all things—a punctilious kindliness. This same Cousin Flora, now an anaemic woman of forty-five, had not always been exclusively concerned with propriety. Ruth remembered Cousin Flora’s ill‑fated romance, an affair that deeply unsettled the family, who quashed it to protect their pride. Cousin Flora had been ill‑fated to fall in love with a man entirely outside the social circles of the Copelands and the Hollands. He was a young laboring man whom she knew through the social affairs of the church. He had the presumption to fall in love with her. She had not had love before, being less generously endowed in other respects than with social position in Freeport. There had been a brief, mad time when Cousin Flora had seemed to find love greater than exclusiveness. But the unwanted affair was thwarted by a family whose only democratic spirit lay in working together for the Lord, and, as Ruth recalled, Cousin Flora was saved—a fact they all spoke of with quiet satisfaction. Looking at her now Ruth wondered if there ever came times when she regretted having been saved. She endeavored to savor every small thought that surfaced, for the homecoming felt so desolate that she was left to confront it alone. She had many times lived through a homecoming. Yet whenever she pictured herself back home, she felt that everything remained unchanged, no matter what had transpired. Even now, she and Ted felt uneasy around one another: he was the boy she’d once known, and bridging the years they’d spent apart without shared memories felt almost impossible. It was the house itself seemed really to take her in. When she got her first sight of it all the things in between just rolled away. She was back. What struck her first was not change, but the striking sameness—the gate, the walk to the house, the big tree, the porch steps—each step up along the path filled her with a real sense of returning home. She stepped onto the porch, only to find her mother absent; the dawning realization that she would never see her again pierced her with a pang of poignancy as she entered the house. Yet it seemed as though her mother were still somewhere inside the house, ready in a moment to come into the room and explain where she had been. She found herself listening for her grandfather’s slow, unsure steps and for Terror’s bark—his wild, jubilant rush into the room. Ted said that Terror had been run over by an automobile a number of years before. Nor was it only those whom death kept away who were not there. Her sister Harriett wasn’t there to greet her, and even by evening she still hadn’t seen her. Ted had merely said that he guessed Harriett was tired out. He seemed embarrassed about it and had hastily begun to talk of something else. And none of the old girls had come in to see her. The fact that she had not expected them to come somehow did not much relieve the hurt of their not coming. When a door opened, she listened for Edith’s voice, unable to dispel the certainty that Edith would soon rush in. During most of his final days she sat beside his bed; watching him die, that was the closest comfort she could find. As she gazed at the face already etched with the pallor of death, memories of her father surfaced at intervals across the years. One day, when she was just a small child, he came home with a puppy, holding the soft, wriggling, fuzzy little ball of life up to her; his face wore a bright grin as he basked in the joy of her delight. That day, when she declared she was tired of Sunday‑school and would no longer attend, she saw him standing rigidly, pointing sternly toward the stairs as if he had just ordered her to get dressed for class. She could hear him saying, "Ruth, go upstairs and put on your clothes for Sunday-school!"—see him as plainly as though it had just happened standing there pointing a stern finger toward the stairs, not moving until she had started to obey him. | He had a little time alone in his room before dinner and sat there smoking, thinking, looking at the specks of men and women moving about in the streets way down there below. He was unwilling that night to join in the endless chatter about army affairs, grievances, and conspiracies—those fanciful things of a world within a world that pretended to be larger than reality. In the last few days he realized anew how their hold on him was loosening. It seemed as if the army possessed its own distinct habitual mindset. In their own sphere the army prized order, discipline, efficiency, unquestioned loyalty, pride, and devotion—qualities that the chaotic world outside so desperately needed. In isolation, army men lost perspective, sense of proportion, and an appreciation for relationships. They possessed no genuine vision of themselves as an integral part of a greater whole. In contrast, they have unconsciously fallen into the belief that the whole exists for the part, thinking themselves greater than the very thing they are meant to serve. Their whole scale was perfectly proportioned, yet their overall sense of adjustment was utterly perverted. They lacked flexibility—openness—all-sides-aroundness. The army’s way of life instills in its members a wide array of invaluable virtues. It failed to convey an authentic sense of life’s true values. He couldn’t explain why those inflated proportions irritated him so. They made everything feel unreal. They established false standards. He increasingly came to see reality as the only thing that mattered. He tried to distance himself from the thoughts that might lure him in. He lacked the courage to think of her that night. He feared his popularity had not swelled over the past few days. At the dinner the night before, a colonel ended the discussion on war—when several younger officers had begun to show a worrisome openness to civilian viewpoints—by proclaiming in a pious tone, “War was ordained by God.” “Yet men bear the war’s tax,” he added, and the colonel offered no laugh. He found it exhausting how the army remained smug in its belief that God stood behind them. When weighed on economic grounds, and perhaps also driven by a “survival of the fittest” mindset, a pompous retreat can always be steered toward divinity. Earlier that evening, the same colonel had closed the discussion about the unemployed. "The poor,' the colonel said, softly brushing his lips against his glass of champagne, before gently steering the conversation toward the safer topic of high explosives. He impatiently redirected his thoughts toward the men and women far below. He kept scanning the crowds of men and women, always hoping to spot a familiar face. Despite the baffling unreality that surrounded her, she seemed to embody true reality. Her presence stirred an unexpected ache within him, a longing for that elusive something. She made him want life. It made him feel the missing part of his life—and realize what he had never truly possessed. Without finding her, he felt life itself would elude him. She, too, had wanted life. She had been on a quest for life—a longing he himself recognized. He longed to find her so that he could finally tell her what he had never revealed before—that all his life he had been dreaming of something. He was growing increasingly distant from his army friends, for he had come to see them as standing between him and the world. During the summer, he had witnessed it. Whenever he left for work in the mornings or returned home in the evenings, he often found himself on the streets alongside other working people. He could no longer view the army’s expansion, its organization, and its problems as the most vital concern in the world. He could not fathom why the world sought a fiercer rifle. His lips curled faintly as he stared down at the men and women below, mulling over how little the difference mattered to them whether rifles were improved or not. They required many improvements, yet the thought of devoting his life to perfecting weapons of destruction struck him as a pathetic vocation. It made him feel distinctly isolated. He recognized that no other class of men was cut off from the world's true battle as sharply as the soldiers. They were wholly immersed in a personal contest, each soldier racing to outpace the others in sharpening their war‑readiness. They were frantic, bent on forging their own version of Frankenstein. They would perfect destruction so completely that it would ultimately destroy them. Their competitive fervor had heated their blood to the point that they were convinced a genuine war was looming. This seething fervor seeped into an abundance of talk about valor, vigor, martial virtues, the “spices of life,” and the “romance of history,” all designed to inflame the soldiers’ passion. The militarist's self‑delusion was so convincing that what appeared as sanity seemed itself nothing more than a delusion. Their greatest dread was the prospect of losing fear itself. And now they were threatened by dull economists who absurdly insisted that the “stern reality” was in fact a great hallucination. It felt almost like a farce. That night he turned back. Katie, too, had gone. That summer, for the first time, neither of them would appear. It seemed giving up. Loneliness stretched into vast, barren spaces, and he felt destined to remain isolated in both the realms of his heart and the affairs of men. He seemed a dreamer more than a fighter, his delicate, sometimes cold face softened by the glow of his own reveries. On that first night, when she was still shy, he felt in her the “real thing” he’d always called the great, unattainable one. Her timidity, aloofness, and elusiveness evoked an inexplicable sense of closeness in him. He had uncovered the burdensome conditions that girls were compelled to meet. His face hardened, then tightened with pain as he imagined the conditions that Ann was facing. He couldn't see those conditions lasting much longer if each man had to view them through the lens of someone he cared for. Even the poor you have always kept with you may turn out to be less authoritative—and less satisfying—than the final word. He had come to loathe the words “chivalry” and “honor,” and all the empty rhetoric that once resonated so convincingly against false ideals—values he and men like Darrett had long claimed to uphold. The world was in disarray, and he could not see that merely refining a rifle would advance any meaningful move toward repairing it. Within him, even amid his loneliness and gloom, a fervor burst forth, compelling him to act and set things right. The experienced officer he’d been talking to that day spoke fondly of his father—under whom he had served—and praised his bravery, integrity, manliness, and soldierly spirit. Now, as he reflected, he felt that because he was his father’s son—bearing the soldier’s blood—he should confront the true, enduring battles of our time. His father had served with unwavering loyalty and commendable excellence. He, too, longs to serve. Yet yesterday’s demands do not align with today’s, nor are the methods of the past desirable or even feasible for the present. How far removed from truly serving the present can one be than by presenting it the inert relics of the earnest service of a bygone era? It struck him that abandoning war was the sole hope of rescuing what war had already taken from him. Perhaps he could transmit his heritage only by redefining the very act of giving. Looking out across the miles of the city's roofs, hearing the rumble of the city as it came faintly up to him, watching the people hurrying to and fro, there was something puerile in the argument that men any longer needed war to fill their lives, must have the war fear to keep them from softness and degeneration. | 0.6 | Young women -- Fiction | Cook, Mrs. George Cram | Cook, Mrs. George Cram | 32432 | 11217 | Cook, Mrs. George Cram_[Fidelity: A Novel]_1500_25_0.4 | Cook, Mrs. George Cram_[The Visioning: A Novel]_1500_61_0.9 |
"Nay, 'tis but the word I was fain to invent for him. " " Invent? Can a child like you create words beyond those that naturally grow in Burgundy? Take heed what ye do! We’re already being overrun by them—especially the bad ones. Lord, these be times. I look forward to hearing about the next invented thistle. "Well then, dame, 'mulierose'—that means completely enveloped in womanhood, both in body and soul." I beseech thee: how ever could thou perceive the noodle’s mulierosity? Alas! Good youth, you turn a molehill into a mountain. As women, we are keen observers—gleaming through a lens of perspective, we catch more than most men can, all from a single glance. While I moved back and forth, my gaze remained fixed on my guests, and I noticed that the soldier’s eyes never left the women—my daughter, Marion, or even an elderly woman like myself—all seemed precious to him, and there he sat, glowering, as I laughed, “Oh, you foolish man!” You still turn to the speaker—whether she is female or he is—and that makes perfect sense. Denys burst into a hoarse laugh. " You never were more out. Why is this silky, smooth‑faced companion considered a true Turk, except for his beard? He is older than any archer in the Duke’s bodyguard. He is far more enamored with a single Dutch lass named Margaret than I am with all of you—both brown and fair. "Honestly, that is precisely the opposite," the hostess said. Yourn is the bane, and hisn the cure. Cling you still to Margaret, my dear. I hope she remains an honest girl. Dame, she is an angel. " " Ay, ay, they are all that till better acquainted. I would prefer her to be no more than honest, that way she will keep you away from worse company. For you, soldier, trouble lies ahead. Your eyes were never meant to serve the sake of your soul. "Nor of his pouch either," Marion said, striking in, "and his lips will sip the dew—as he calls it—from many a bramble bush." Overmuch clack! Marion overmuch clack. " " Ods bodikins, mistress; ye didn’t hire me to be one of your three fishes, did ye? and Marion sulked thirty seconds. " Is that the way to speak to our mistress?" remonstrated the landlord, who had slipped in. " "Hold your breath," his wife snapped sharply; "you’re not to pry at the girl—she’s a good servant." What if the rooster never crows, and the hens stay with it all day? You can crow as loudly as you like, my friend outside the doors. Yet the hen intends to reign over the roost. I know a byword to that tune." said Gerard. " Do ye, now? out wi't then. " " Rewritten sentence
"Une femme veut, en toute saison, être dame dans sa maison." I had never heard it before, but it was as true as gospel. Ah, those who set these bywords roll their eyes and tongues, and tongues and eyes alike. Before the entire world presents me with an age‑old adage. And me a young husband," said Marion. " Now everyone had a chance, but nobody spoke. Oh! It’s too late now; I’ve already changed my mind. All the better for some poor fellow," suggested Denys. With the arrival of the young mistress, known as the little mistress, everyone assembled round the fire as one cheerful family—travelers, host and hostess, plus the outer‑ring servants—sharing tales until bedtime. Gerard, in his turn, recited a remarkable piece from his repertoire—a manuscript. I compiled a collection of the “Acts of the Saints,” making everyone shudder delightfully; but soon afterward, exhausted by the effort, I began to nod. The young mistress saw, and gave Marion a look. She instantly rushed ahead, laid a hand on Gerard’s shoulder, and invited him to follow her. She showed him a room with two pristine white beds and urged him to choose one. Either is paradise," said he. " I'll take this one. I haven't slept in a naked bed since I left Holland. Alack! poor soul!" She said, “Well then, the sooner my flax and your down come together, the better; so let’s go!” he!) come together, the better; so—allons!" She laid her cheek out in a businesslike manner, as if it were a hand offered for a fee. Allons? what does that mean?" " It means 'good-night.' Ahem! Why don’t they salute the chambermaid on your side? Not all in a moment. " " What, do they make a business on't?" " No, you pervert of words—I mean, we should not speak so freely about strange women. They must be strange women if they don't think you are strange fools. Here is a coil. Why do all the old, greasy, greybearded men who lie at our inn kiss us, chambermaids? Faugh! And what do we, poor wretches, have to set on the other side of the room but now and then a nice young—? Alack! Time flies, but chambermaids can't stay long in the nursery—how can that be? An't please you arrange with my comrade for both. He is mulierose; I am not. " " No, he prefers the curb to the spur. Well! well! You’ll go to bed without paying the usual fee, and indeed it’s sweet to meet a young man who can endure these ancient ill customs—and outwit bold hussies. Shalt have thy reward. " " Thank you! But what are you doing with my bed?" " Me? I was merely taking off these sheets and slipping into the pair the drunken miller had slept in last night. Oh, no! no! You cruel, black-hearted thing! There! there! " " A la bonne heure! What will not perseverance effect? But note now the frowardness of a mad wench! I cared not for't a button. I have been completely fed up with that sport for the past five years. Since you denied me, I had to obtain it immediately—as if I were passing through fire and water to do so. "Alas, young sir, we women are but little cattle, made‑up toads—excuse us, keep us at arm’s length, and good‑night!" When she reached the doorway she spun around, her voice abruptly changed, and she intoned: “May the Virgin shield your head, and may the holy Evangelists stand guard over the bed in which lies a poor, far‑from‑home young wanderer.” Amen!" Just then he heard her rush down the stairs, and shortly afterward a peal of laughter from the hall revealed her location. "Now that is a character," Gerard said, his tone profound, and he yawned at the discovery. Within a few minutes he was immersed in a dry, cold linen bath—so refreshingly clean after such a long time without it—that a delightful glow washed over him, and then—Sevenbergen. When morning broke, Gerard awoke feeling infinitely refreshed and ready to rise, only to discover he was a close prisoner. His linen had vanished. The scene fell into a stillness, for the nightgown was only a newly adopted tradition. In Gerard’s day—and indeed for many years thereafter—men didn’t treat clean sheets lightly; instead, they slipped into them still cloaked in innocence, just as Adam had, and upon rising from bed they seemed to emulate the manner of his eldest son. Gerard bewailed his captivity to Denys, but at that instant the door opened, and Marion entered with their freshly washed and ironed linens in her arms, setting them on the table. Oh you good girl," cried Gerard. " Alack, have you found me out at last?" " Yes, indeed. Is this another custom?" " Nay, we shall not take them unbidden; at night we always ask travelers whether their linen has been washed. So I stepped inside, yet both of you remained sound. Then said I to the little mistress, 'La! Where lies the purpose of awakening weary men, asking whether Charles the Great is dead, and choosing whether to carry foul linen or clean—especially the one with a cream‑colored skin? The young mistress said, “And so he has.” Denys, sounding like a commentator, declared, “That was me.” Try once again, and thou shall hit the mark. Don’t pay him any attention, Marion—he’s rather impudent. I’m deeply grateful for your kindness and regret ever turning down any wish of yours. Oh, are ye there," said l'espiegle. " I take that to mean thou wouldst fain brush the morning dew off, as thy bashful companion calleth it; well then, pardon me, 'tis customary, yet not prudent. I decline. Quits with you, lad. | " "Me bitter against her?" Catherine said, “No, that’s all over.” What an unfortunate soul! Behind her lay trouble, ahead another; I could not help wondering how, by bringing her—and all living women—together with Gerard’s letter, I might finally understand what was troubling me. Ah, that was exactly what made her leave— I swear. She is coming over. What, my dear? Do not be afraid; no one is here except friends. They settled her into a comfortable chair. As the colour crept back into her face and lips, Catherine drew Margaret Van Eyck aside. Could she stay with you, if that’s all right? I’m sorry, madam. I would not permit her to return to Sevenbergen tonight. She may do as she pleases. She still refuses to stay the night. Yes, but because you are older than she, you have the capability to influence her. There, she starts to take notice. Catherine pressed her mouth to Margaret Van Eyck’s ear for a brief half‑moment, but even that seemed too short to whisper a single word, let alone a full sentence. On certain subjects women can communicate as quickly as lightning, while on others their thoughts must work through a slower, deliberate process. The old lady began, replying in a hushed whisper. It's false! That's a slander! That truly is monstrous! Observe her face. It would be blasphemous to accuse such a face. Tut! tut! tut!" The other said, “You might as well say this is not my hand.” I should know, and I’m telling you that it is indeed so. She surprised Margaret Van Eyck by walking up to the girl, wrapping her arms around her neck and kissing her warmly. I suffered on Gerard’s behalf, and you bled for him—I hear his own words accusing me of fault, the very words you read to me. Ay, Gerard, my child, I have kept a distance from her. Once I begin, I'll make it up to her. Effective immediately, you are my daughter. With a final, warm embrace the fledgling pact was sealed, and the impulsive woman vanished. Margaret reclined in her chair, and a faint smile drifted across her face. Gerard’s mother kissed her and addressed her as daughter, but moments later she caught her old friend giving her a vexed look. I can't fathom you letting that woman kiss you. His mother!" Margaret murmured, half reproachfully. Whether or not you call her mother, you would not have her touch you if you knew what she whispered in my ear about you. About me?" Margaret said softly. Ah, about you—she had never seen you until tonight. The old lady, hesitating and choosing her words carefully as she urged Margaret to share in her indignation, was suddenly silenced by an unexpected interruption. She slipped from her chair, bent upon her knees, and with a trembling, piteous heart begged her to grant her forgiveness. From the words and manner of her repentance, a bystander would have concluded that she had inflicted a cruel wrong and an intolerable insult upon her venerable friend. The small gathering at the hosier’s house sat at the table, discussing the recent event, when their mother returned and, casting a piercing glance around the intimate circle, laid the letter flat on the table. She recited every word from memory, tracing the lines with her finger, deceiving herself and listeners into believing she could almost read it. She lifted her head abruptly, fixing a sharp, newfound gaze on Cornelis and Sybrandt; their eyes fell. Then the long‑brewing storm finally erupted over their heads. Catherine swelled like an irate hen ruffling its feathers, and from her mouth poured a torrent of wisdom and banter, a ruthless volley of invective that no man could ever utter in a single breath—only a handful of women could. “I have long doubted that you stoked the spark between Gerard and your father, and set the old rogue Ghysbrecht aflame.” And now here are Gerard’s own written words to prove it. You have sent your own kin to distant shores, stealing from the mother who birthed you her beloved child—the pride of her eyes, the joy of her heart. Yet you are a whole, from beginning to end. When we were all boys together, my other boys were comfort, yet you were a curse—mischievous and sly—so much so that a woman had to spend half a day trying to keep your clothes intact—why? Labor wears down cloth, but leisure cuts it. Beard symbolizes prudence, yet you never earned one—you were always the last to go to bed and the last to get up; why? Honesty settles early while industry wakes with the dawn; in a household where two people lie, there are invariably two lazy ones. Often I've sat and looked at your ways, wondering where you came from: you don't take after your father, and you are no more like me than a wasp is to an ant; sure you were changed in the cradle or a cuckoo dropped you onto my floor, for you have neither our hands nor our hearts—of all my blood, none but you ever jeered those afflicted by God; yet often when my back was turned I've heard you mock at Giles because he isn't as big as some, and at my Lily Kate because she isn't as strong as a Flemish mare. After that, if you rob a church, you will... You may be judged no worse by Him than Kate and Giles, nor by me—who suffered for those poor darlings as I did for you—yet you remain a paltry, unfeeling, treasonous cur. No, my daughter, I will not remain silent—someone has already filled the cup to the brim. It takes a great effort to twist a mother’s affection against the sons she has cradled at her knees; and I have often watched them in silence, kept my eyes from seeing too deeply, and bit my tongue, lest their father should notice them as I do—and if he had, he would have cast them out that very instant. But now they’ve filled the cup to overflowing. How did you manage to acquire all this money? Over the last month, you have been luxuriating in it. You never worked for it. I wish I'd never hear anyone else explain how you got it. Since that night you stayed out so late, your head returned swollen, Cornelis. Greed and sloth are mismatched companions, my masters. To love money, one must either sweat the effort or steal it. If you robbed any poor soul, it was a woman; I’ll secure your bail, for a man would beat you with his bare hand. Regardless, it serves some purpose. It has shown me how you will steer our gear should it ultimately become yours. I have observed you, my lads, all this time. You have spent a groat today among yourselves. I spend only a groat a week, yet I keep you all—good and bad. No! Abandon the hope of shoes that might one day tread behind your coffin, for this shop and this house will never truly belong to you. Gerard is our heir—poor Gerard whom you have banished and tried to kill; from now on, do not call me mother again. But you have made him dear to me tenfold. Oh, my poor, lost boy! Soon I will see him again, hold him in my arms, and lay him upon my knees. Sure, you may stare! You are too crafty, yet not crafty enough. You trimmed the stalk, yet you left the seed—seed that will outgrow and outlive you. Margaret Brandt moves swiftly, and the child is Gerard’s; that which belongs to Gerard is mine, for I have prayed to the saints that it may be a boy—indeed it will, it must. Kate, when I realized this, my stomach ached for her unborn child as if it were my own. He is the one we call heir. He will outlast us. You cannot: for a rotten heart hidden inside a body is like a worm in a nut, soon to reduce that body to dust. So, Kate, pull Gerard’s bib and tucker from the drawer you know of, and one of these days we’ll carry them to Sevenbergen. We shall borrow Peter Buyskens’ cart and go to ease Gerard’s wife, bearing her burdens with us. She is, indeed, his wife. Who exactly is Ghysbrecht Van Swieten? Can he come between a couple and the altar, and sunder those that God and the priest make one? | 0.6 | Historical fiction | Reade, Charles | Reade, Charles | 1366 | 38895 | Reade, Charles_[Subtitle: or, Maid, wife and widow: a matter-of-fact romance Subtitle: a tale of the middle ages]_1500_53_0.5 | Reade, Charles_[Haydn]_1500_85_0.9 |
" He drew her to a chair and, seating herself, her faded face and eyes that had lost their old look of surprise turned to the light, Mrs. Chadwick assented, "It's very fatiguing to live with, certainly. Occasionally I feel the urge to step away for a brief period and rejuvenate myself. Nancy would come and stay with Meg, you know. But I can't miss Barney's last weeks. He comes to us, now, again. And it might not be right to leave Meg. One should not think of oneself at a time like this, should one? The knitting lay in her lap as she twisted and untwisted a handkerchief in her old-fashioned way, but her fingers moved slowly and without agitation, and Oldmeadow sensed that a spring of life within her had been broken. The best plan would have Meg start work as soon as possible, and for you and Nancy to leave. Work is the only thing for Meg now. She'll dash herself to pieces down here; and you with her. There'll soon be plenty to do. Nursing and driving ambulances. " " Nancy is going to nurse, you know," said Mrs. Chadwick. " But she won't go as long as we need her here. She has promised me that. I don't know what I should do without Nancy. If I were a wounded soldier, I wouldn't mind being nursed by Meg. She’s so restless she might miss simple things—like handing someone a handkerchief or making sure hot‑water bottles are wrapped before setting them at their feet. Amy Hatchard, a friend of mine and a strikingly pretty woman with bright red hair—a feature I never cared for—once had the soles of her feet nearly scorched by a careless nurse. Dear Nancy. I often think of Nancy now, Roger. I believe that if Adrienne had not come, Nancy and Barney might have married. We could have been so happy, even though she has very little money. After a pause, Oldmeadow murmured, “I wish you all could view Adrienne in a gentler light.” Mrs. Chadwick had begun to knit. " I must tell you that I personally feel a different way about her. Do you, Roger?" said Mrs. Chadwick, without surprise. " I know you possess a remarkably discerning and reasoned mind; back when you were barely a boy, Francis remarked that he'd rather trust your judgment than that of most other men he knows. I always remembered that, afterwards. Till she came. And then I believed in her rather than in you. You thought us all far too fond of her from the very first. And now we have certainly changed. Meg is undeniably far more violent than I could ever be; I am sorry for Adrienne. I don’t think she intended to harm us, even though Meg believes otherwise. She only meant to do you good, I am sure of it. When I visited Palgrave in Oxford, I saw her and wanted to tell you about it. She is very unhappy. She wants Palgrave to go. She wants him to feel it right to go. It's not she, really, who is keeping him back now. " " My poor Palgrave. Meg is very unkind about him; very bitter and unkind; her own brother. It was utterly inappropriate for Adrienne to establish a household in Oxford so close to him. You must own that, Roger. She may not be holding him back, but she is constantly aiding and abetting him. It made Barney even more miserable and disgusted than he was before. And it looks so very odd. Though I don't think that anyone could ever gossip about Adrienne. There is something about her that makes that impossible. " " There certainly is. I am glad she is with Palgrave, poor boy. " " I am glad you are sorry for him, Roger"—Mrs. Chadwick dropped a needle. " How clumsy I am. My fingers seem all to have turned to thumbs. Thank you so much. I try to make as many socks as I can for our poor men, fingering the wool by hand rather than using a wheel—an approach that keeps the fabric gentle rather than rough on their feet. I’m sure I’d rather march, and if it came to that, I'd rather die fingering (hand‑knitting) than wheeling. I’ve always believed, even if it sounds foolish, that if I were to drown, I’d rather be in warm, soapy water than in cold salt. Not that one is very likely, ever, to drown in one's bath. But tell me about Adrienne and Palgrave, Roger, and what they said. " Mrs. Chadwick’s remarks rendered his concerns irrelevant, and even as he tried to show her what he had seen, he could not escape the feeling that the effort was in vain. There was indeed no enmity to plead against. Only a deep exhaustion. Adrienne had pressed too heavily on the spring and it was broken. " "I'm certain she feels awful about all the trouble she's caused, but she’s not the woman I thought she was, Roger," she said, shaking her head as he finished. I feel sorry for her, but I once regarded her as a kind of saint—now I know she is far from that. "Falling short doesn’t strip you of sainthood," Oldmeadow said, recalling Nancy's plea. You have just as much reason now as you did then to believe in her. Although her spring was broken, Mrs. Chadwick still retained her keen shrewdness. It flickered in the sad eyes she lifted from the khaki sock. " Some kinds of failure do, Roger. You remember that gift of healing—everything she could offer people in that way—and she has now completely lost it. That is a reason. It's that, more than anything, has made me feel differently about her. Lost it?" He felt strangely discomposed, though the gift of healing had never truly impressed him. Quite," Mrs. Chadwick repeated. " I think it distressed her dreadfully herself. I believe she relied on it more than anything else, perhaps unaware of doing so. It must have made her seem so sure to herself, mustn't it? The first time was just a few weeks after you had come that summer, before the war, and yet it felt like ages ago; I suffered one of the worst headaches I’d ever endured. I was so dreadfully troubled, you know, about Barbara and Meg. Adrienne came to sit beside me as she had always done, placing her hand on my forehead. I knew this was not a matter of faith—I truly believed I would recover—but instead of a sense of peace, the feeling only grew far worse. It felt as though searing needles jabbed my eyes while a crushing iron weight pressed upon my skull. And such tumult and distress. I had to tell her. I had to ask her to take away her hand. She felt it deeply, poor thing, grew very pale, and said it must be because she was still not strong—she was not quite herself. But I knew then that it was because she was not right, contrary to what I had thought of her. I began to suspect, from that very moment, that I was wrong—after all, hypnotizing people doesn’t make one a saint, does it, Roger? —and I think you once remarked, many years ago, that this was all she had accomplished: she hypnotized us all, making us believe she was good and wonderful. After Meg arrived, I let her try again, even though it frightened me; she looked oddly unsettling. And!—oh, dear—it was dreadful. It distressed me dreadfully. She suddenly pressed her hands to her face, sat rigidly in place, then burst into tears, sprang to her feet, and fled the room sobbing. It made me feel quite ill. I knew, naturally, that a person who made you feel that way—who felt that way themselves and then broke down—could not be saintly. Oldmeadow eventually came to the realization that even saints experience moments of darkness and dryness. The picture she put before him hurt him. " I was wrong to regard her as a saint merely because she could hypnotize you, and the fact that she can no longer do so—perhaps because she has lost that power—does not prove that she is not a saint. Of course she's not. | Once more he took to painting in the kitchen. The studio was dedicated to Sara, the girl who came to him despite her disappointment. He had spoiled her for other boys. Painting in the kitchen all day, his life settled into a steady rhythm of order and regularity. After his morning stroll, he worked until the clatter of the workers downstairs signaled the day's end; he then hurried to pack up his paint‑box, sprinted to the studio, and waited for Sara, who would tap softly at the door. Golda was thrilled by his newfound happiness and growing manhood, yet she sensed that this youthful spring could not arise without a reason. She knew he was in love, feared the looming consequences, and dreaded that their entanglement might prove fatal. She kept vigil, watching Sara slip quietly out of the house hours after the other workpeople had gone. She told Jacob that Sara was dismissed and forbidden from ever coming near the house again. At first, Mendel barely noticed Sara passing by. He waited anxiously for her to arrive, but when she never came he continued working, gradually realizing that the initial burst of enthusiasm had faded. His steadfast habit of regular work made it easy for him to keep going—just as a skilled carpenter, mason, or any other competent journeyman would. With no one purchasing his work, his father began speaking gloomily and ominously about the workshop. Never!" said Mendel. " If I have not become a great artist by the time I turn twenty‑three, I will come to work. If by the time I reach twenty‑three I have accomplished nothing, I will come to know myself as worthless. Jacob said, “I see no reason you shouldn’t work like everyone else and still paint in your spare time.” Issy enjoys dancing in his spare moments, while Harry excels at boxing. Why should you refrain from painting during your leisure hours and instead commit to honest work? Mendel turned on his father and ranted at him. You do not know what work is. You work with your hands. Yes. Have you ever worked so hard that your head swells like a submerged sphere and your eyes ache from seeing far deeper inside than outside? If I cannot paint I shall die. I will be like a silent bird, like a woman without children, and like a man bereft of strength. I promise I will die if I cannot paint. Yes, he will die," said Golda. " He will surely die. " " Jacob warned, “He will die of starvation if he continues painting.” Golda cried, “If you hadn’t slept, all that work would have left you starving,” convinced that Mendel was telling the truth. Before the crisis erupted, Mendel had uncovered an additional dimension of the Christian faith. A bright young man from an Oxford neighbourhood had heard of him and set out to find him. This young man's name was Edward Tufnell. As the son of a prosperous northern manufacturer, he believed that the cultured classes owed something to the masses. He believed that the slums housed silent, unglorified Milton‑like figures who simply needed cultivation. When he learned that a poor boy was painting oranges, fish, and onions in his mother’s kitchen, he felt an eager impulse to draw the prodigy into the realm of culture. He compelled him to attend lectures on poetry and French. The obligations provided Mendel with a legitimate excuse to slip away from home each evening; he attended the lectures, yet heard barely a single understandable word. He admired Edward Tufnell, who embodied the gentleman he imagined—generous, kind, and quick to value every fellow creature regardless of outward appearance. Edward Tufnell behaved toward Golda with the same measured grace he would have reserved for an elderly duchess. Mendel recounted his troubles to Edward Tufnell, who—through his ties with the Bishop of Stepney—managed to secure the boy a position in a stained‑glass workshop where he was assigned to trace cartoons of the Virgin Mary, St John the Baptist, and other figures he had never previously encountered. Even though he had never heard of them, he understood that they were dignified figures, and he was shocked to hear the workers exclaim, “Billy, throw us down another Mary,” or “Jack, lift that one up.” He was acutely miserable. Drawing devoid of impulse or pleasure felt like torture to him, for he could not lay a pencil on the paper without a surge of excitement and longing; this sense of wonder vanished instantly when his hand was forced to trace the ordinary outlines of the stained‑glass windows. The draftspersons he worked with were hollow, foul‑mouthed men who seemed intent on projecting a life devoted solely to base physical pleasures. They knew nothing—nothing at all—and he despised them. He earned five shillings a week, and was told that if he behaved himself, he would be earning thirty shillings a week by the time he reached twenty or twenty‑one. Jacob delighted in this possibility and assured his unhappy son that he would soon settle into it, even scolding him for neglecting to paint in the evenings. Mendel could not touch his brushes. He struggled to see himself as just another working boy, and set about seeking the simple pleasures that suited his nature. He accompanied Harry to boxing matches and partook in the roguish delights of the street, yet the experience left him exhausted and repulsed. Having discovered something truer and more refined, he couldn’t help despising Harry, who treated girls as game. As soon as the girls were drawn to him, he lost interest in them and was, in fact, rather horrified by them. Mendel’s relationship with Edward Tufnell was a surprising contrast: the latter, wholly innocent, saw in his protégé nothing but a tender sensitivity to beauty. The urchin, who possessed a complete and unspoiled understanding of gutter life, was concealed from him. Edward discovered—and was delighted to discover—that the boy was attuned to intellectual beauty and ideas. He supplied him with poetry—Keats and Milton’s odes—and joyfully set it alongside the basics of Christianity, explaining how Christ’s coming had changed the world. His purpose wasn’t to compel a conversion, but simply to nurture the boy’s longing for tenderness, kindness, and all that is fair and beautiful. Mendel earnestly sought to accept his grim destiny, while the teachings of Christ seemed to reinforce his resolve. When he asked if he could read the New Testament, Edward handed it to him without hesitation. The result was disastrous. Mendel leafed through the book, and it seemed to illuminate the darkness within him. Reading about St. Paul’s conversion, he found his own illumination to be no less complete. The idea of offering the other cheek struck a chord with him, for he believed the entire world to be his adversary. He earned only five shillings a week, and if he remained meek he could eventually receive another five. It opened a hopeful vision of a world where people loved and treated each other kindly, living free from the anger, suspicion, and jealousy that had once filled his home. He visited the National Gallery and, for the first time, began to appreciate the Italian masters. He would convert to Christianity and channel his devotion into canvases depicting serene Madonnas and tender mothers nursing their infants, all watched over by gentle saints like Edward Tufnell. Yet the new spirituality conflicted with his home life and was insufficient to overcome it. That life possessed a quality as indispensable to him as air. It stank in his nostrils, yet it fed his spirit, and though his newfound enthusiasm urged him to embrace it, he could not sentimentalize his relationship with his mother. Her relationship with her father suppressed it, and he cast a shadow over the life that Christ was meant to illuminate. Nevertheless, the pictures kept him entrenched in the struggle, and he sought support by rallying Harry to his cause. That roisterer had begun to find his life very unsatisfying, and he gulped down the new idea simply because it was new. | 0.3 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Sedgwick, Anne Douglas | Cannan, Gilbert | 42428 | 54931 | Sedgwick, Anne Douglas_[Adrienne Toner: A Novel]_1500_48_0.4 | Cannan, Gilbert_[Mendel: A Story of Youth]_1500_12_0.8 |
'I promised to go to one more campaign—the Russo-Turkish—which will come on in the spring, and after that I shall follow the paths of peace.' Mrs. Wylie folded her table‑napkin and, in a deliberate, meditative gesture, slipped it into an ancient silver ring that was several sizes too large for it. I used to think,' she murmured, 'that you would never follow the ways of peace.' Then she turned her gaze across the table to his face, her eyes tightening in an indescribable contraction even as her lips curved into a smile. I’m not entirely certain about you now, Theo," she said softly as she stood and led him toward the door. Trist was the first to grasp the handle, opening the door with an unostentatious politeness that set him apart from the typical young men of society. As she passed, he offered a reassuring smile and, in his flat, steady tone, said, “I’m entirely sure of myself.” Not too sure?' she inquired over her shoulder. ' No.' In the drawing-room he succumbed to his hostess's Bohemian persuasions, and lighted a cigarette. He seemed to have forgotten his own affairs. ' About Alice,' he began—'que faire?' For some reason Mrs. Wylie avoided meeting his glance. ' "I told Alfred Huston," she said after a brief pause, "that I would get in touch with Alice and that I still hope they can live happily together." Her tone was eminently practical and business-like. Trist answered in the same way. ' “I told Alice,” he cheered, “that I would ask you to contact Huston so that we could reach a definite arrangement.” Hide-and-seek is a slow game after a time. ' ' What sort of arrangement?' ' I put forward that he allow her a period of freedom from disturbance, giving her time to contemplate the situation. Mrs. Wylie's smile was a trifle wan and uncertain. ' In fact, you made the best of it?' ' Yes. What else could I do?' The widow looked at him keenly. Believing in such impartiality was hard; it is simply a human weakness to doubt any form of disinterestedness. "I told Alfred Huston," she said, her voice a little disjointed, "that I trusted you to give your honest best for everyone involved in this matter." Which statement Huston politely declined to confirm, I should imagine. Mrs. Wylie shrugged her shoulders. Denial was evidently out of the question. ' Then my name was brought in?' asked Trist in a peculiar way. ' Yes.' ' By whom?' ' By me. It would have been far worse than futile, Theo, to have tried to ignore your influence over the girls. For a second time Trist avoided meeting his companion's glance. ' I told Sir Edward, after a considerable pause, that I must be allowed to remain in England for some time, and that I regret not having asked to be sent to active service without delay. With a placid tone, Mrs. Wylie leaned toward Theo and said, “I’m not inclined to go so far as to say that, but I believe you must exercise great caution.” I merely wish to bring to your attention the illumination under which your assistance will likely shine in the eye of the world. You have no—he paused before saying “man”—man to help you except me, so it would be better to have someone you could play against Huston’s stronger cards, someone who frightens him. "Yes," she replied with an affectionate smile, "I understand your point and agree with you; Alfred Huston is not a threatening figure—he’s quite weak." When he is sober,' suggested Trist significantly. The sailor’s widow was so fearless that she paid no heed to the insinuation. She added, “I’m convinced that this reconciliation will only be achieved if it’s left entirely in my hands.” Even your most subtle influence will be spotted by Alfred Huston, and the outcome will be disastrous. Unless ... unless...' She stopped in a vague way, and moved restlessly. ' Unless what?' ' Unless you go to Alfred Huston and convince him, by some means, that there is no love between you and Alice. His laughter at the suggestion was a showcase of effortless nonchalance—deep, melodic, and natural—yet Mrs. Wylie somehow did not join in. No,' he said; 'that would not do. Should Alice and I collaborate and present a multitude of solemn affidavits, I doubt that Huston will be satisfied any more than he presently is. The only practical way forward is for me to keep myself in reserve while you handle the matter. He had risen during this speech, and now held out his hand. ' I have an appointment with the Army and Navy, he said, and I must ask you to excuse me if I run away. Mrs. Wylie was left in her own drawing-room nonplussed. With a trace of mild astonishment, she fixed her gaze upon the door that had just shut behind her incomprehensible guest. That,' she reflected, 'is the first time that I have seen Theo have recourse to retreat. THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SEA. Equinoctial gales often arrive belatedly, appearing only once night has unquestionably subdued day. In such circumstances, November unfolds gently, its southerly breezes soft and varying with the contour of the land and the experience of both farmer and townsman. At sea the wind blows hard enough even in the best weather, and although sailors may have watery eyes at the wheel or on the forecastle, there are no frozen fingers aloft—something that in itself is a mercy. A robust roar echoes through the shrouds, and while some parts of the deck remain wet, the clear horizon and rushing clouds overhead explode with fearless exhilaration. On land, everything grows more filthy—especially underfoot—where leaves no longer crackle and instead scentfully sink into mud. Water lingers along the roadways and in the ruts, where curled beech leaves drift half‑waterlogged, moving in a vague, ship‑like drift. The ploughed ground, brimming with seed for next year’s crops or simply lying fallow, is damp, soft, and black; whether a farmer or a sportsman strides across it, their steps leave deep impressions and carry a heavy weight on each foot. The trees stand bare and leafless, yet rapid, green mouldy growths break up the wet, monochrome bark. Here, again, as at sea, the atmosphere is singularly gay and translucent. Things afar off seem near, and new details in the landscape become apparent. Every hint of color seems to shimmer, almost glowing, and the green of the meadow is striking. Although there is an autumnal odour on the breeze, it has no sense of melancholy. Though cloaked in grey, the clouds pulse with unseen life, and their veils reveal a glow that waits beyond. With motion, melancholy cannot live. Even the most casual observer can see how this light breeze affects people differently. The wind refreshes sailors, who strip into their oilskins with buoyant vigor; farmers tarry, marveling at how long it will last; hunters—so long as the terrain isn’t too heavy—seize a joy that rivals nothing of wartime; timid riders become bold, and bold men grow reckless. It is only folks who stay indoors that complain of depression. I confess yearning for the sea, even though my office offers only the sky and chimney‑pots over the ink‑stand; yet the very shades of dark and light unfold before me when I close my eyes. It stretches over a long, undulating expanse of green‑tinged gray, punctuated here and there by specks of dirty white, while the horizon line remains sharp and crystal‑clear enough to delight even the most tentative novice with a sextant. In November 1876 there were only a handful of days that matched the weather I had tried to convey, and Brenda—who was then spending that time on England’s east coast—had begun to associate soft winds and clear airs with the oft‑maligned county of Suffolk. During the rest of her life, in the long, aimless years when she came to love the verdant plains and their bare, mud‑slick sea‑walls, she saw Suffolk only as a fragment of soft autumnal melancholy. She never again listened to the wail of the sea-gull without involuntarily waiting for the cheery cry of the snipe. | Suddenly she felt all her slimness and fragility; she felt all the girl in herself and all the dominant man in him, and all the empty space around them. She went hot. Her sight became dim. She was engulfed in ecstatic bliss, while deep shame gnawed at her. She yearned for the moment to endure forever, for both herself and him to remain motionless, yet simultaneously she longed to soar. In truth, she did not wish to fly; nevertheless, her voice and limbs moved of their own accord, defying her volition. Good-night, then. " " But I say! Your wages. May I pay you now? No, no! It doesn’t matter at all—thanks. He shook his hand with a carefree, good‑natured grin, as if he were muttering, “Foolish creature!” You cannot defend yourself, yet these airs are oddly amusing. But I am benevolent." She was ashamed of her own shame, furious at the childishness that made her frown and lower her eyes, and she fled the room like a mouse. Midnight came when Hilda awoke, and within moments she realized that her reaction to Miss Gailey’s telegram had been utterly monstrous. In the darkness, she saw it as an enormity. She should have answered the telegram straightaway and caught the afternoon train to London. What could have stopped her from knocking on the inner‑room door and telling Mr. Cannon—regardless of who was present—that she was very sorry, since she had just received a telegram that her mother was ill in London and she must leave by the next train? Nothing had stood in her way. She should have boarded the evening train no later than then. In a crisis like that, business mattered little. Her mother could be gravely ill, dying, or already gone. People did not send such telegrams for trivial reasons. The astonishing fact was that she had been so blind to her obvious duty, and she lamented that if she had acted as she ought, she would have been on her way to London instead of standing in the room. She could not explain what “that” actually meant. Still, Mr. Cannon's remark—“It’s a good thing you didn’t go to London”—gladdened her, though the joy was muted. She then tried to calm her own anxieties. Sarah Gailey trembled with nerves, her heart racing at the slightest hint of danger. Her mother possessed a remarkably robust constitution. The notion that her mother was seriously ill seemed absurd. Just a few hours later she would find herself beside her mother, laughing heartily at the sheer absurdity of those night‑time fears. Either way, a letter from Sarah Gailey would certainly arrive by the first post, giving her the exact information she needed before she began. She managed only a brief moment of self‑comfort, but soon she felt even more sorrowful than ever, convinced of her own wrongdoing. She repeatedly imagined detailed scenes in her mind—such as her mother’s bed at the moment of death—rehearsing the exact words she and others would speak, endlessly. She then relived the day before, repeatedly entering the inner room to say to Mr. Cannon, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Cannon, but I’ve just received a telegram—” and so on. Why had she failed to say it? Thus the currents of her mind ran with ruthless, frantic insistence until she could no longer tell whether she was awake or asleep, and the very tissues of her brain felt raw. She thought faintly: “If I could get up, light a candle, and move about, I might be able to end this.” But she could not rise. She was pulled down onto the bed. When she tried to soothe herself with other images of delight, she realized they had lost all power. As she undressed a few hours earlier, she relived, with exquisite and delightful alarm, the final minute of her conversation with Mr. Cannon, drifting into sleep while mentally replaying those instant moments. But now those memories left her indifferent, even stoking a revulsion. Her remorse slowly shed its once‑mysterious allure. She clung to the hope that a reassuring letter would soon arrive for her. That was the only flicker of consolation she felt. At six, she was inside the house, fully alive and acutely aware of every particle of her body and each minute operation of her mind. Within less than two hours, the letter would find its way into the lobby. At half‑past six, both of them were dressed, and Florrie—her face set with the solemnity and urgency of her task—headed for the Saracen’s Head to arrange a cab that would be at their door by eight o’clock. Hilda had much to accomplish: she needed to shut the house in, finish packing her trunk, lock and cord it, affix a label, and prepare breakfast. Mrs. Lessways would have spent a few days easily arranging the house for its closure. Nevertheless, time, instead of flying, lagged. At half‑past seven, Hilda sat in the half‑dismantled parlour while Florrie, in the kitchen, settled down to breakfast. "Hilda murmured to herself, 'In fifteen minutes the post will arrive.'" But in four minutes she’d finished the bacon and the scalding tea, and within five she’d carried all the breakfast items into the kitchen, where Florrie was loudly munching at the crumbling table. She told Florrie sharply that plenty of time remained to wash up. She strode to her bedroom, hauling her trunk on her own, and set it sliding unassisted down the stairs. Back in the bedroom, she casually glanced over the cash in her purse before packing her travel gear. She lingered at the window, waiting for the postman’s arrival. She soon spotted him in the distance; he hurried over, yet lingered for an unbearable minute unseen in the shop next door. When he emerged, Hilda was overcome with anguish. Had he a letter for her? Had he not? He faltered at the gateway before finally deciding to step inside; the double tap of his drumstick baton rang out, and in only a few seconds she would learn of her mother. She walked calmly toward the stairs, her composure firmly restrained. She stared in astonishment as Florrie bent down to snatch the letter. Florrie was undoubtedly poised, ready to sprint to the front door. When she lifted herself and spotted Hilda, Florrie’s face flushed. The staircase was blocked by a trunk that Hilda had laid on the stair‑mat for the cabman to handle. Standing behind the trunk, Hilda stretched out her hand to receive the letter. "Please, miss, it’s addressed to me," Florrie whispered, sounding like a petty thief. For you?" Hilda cried, startled. Florrie, trembling, unfolded the envelope, and Hilda plainly saw, in a coarse, scrawled masculine hand, the words “Miss Florrie Bagster.” Florrie's face was a burning peony. Hilda turned away with a haughty expression, refusing to ask for any explanations. Her anxieties flared anew when Miss Gailey’s promised letter failed to arrive. She urged herself in vain that Miss Gailey had deemed a letter unnecessary—expecting to see her soon—or that, having recovered from illness, the busy miss had simply postponed writing. She could not shake the image of a London boarding‑house all upturned by a resident’s grave illness, while its landlady was so distracted that she couldn’t even spare a moment to jot a postcard. As this vision raged and desolated her, she whispered to herself, “Imagine that child, already at her age, has a follower!” She's certainly got a follower! " The cab had arrived five minutes early. As the cab hurried through Market Square, where Saturday stalls were being busily set up, the ironmongery shop was for a moment framed by the oblong shape of a rattling window. Hilda seemed to look at the place afresh, as if for the very first time. A man was pulling the shop's shutters down. Above the window hung wire blinds bearing the name “Q. Karkeek”, and perched above those were the blue posters of the Five Towns Chronicle. No outward sign of Mr. Cannon! And yet Mr. Cannon.... She had an extremely disconcerting sensation of the mysteriousness of Mr. Cannon, and of the mysteriousness of all existence. | 0.3 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Merriman, H. Seton (Henry Seton) | Bennett, Arnold | 74461 | 10658 | Merriman, H. Seton (Henry Seton)_[Suspense, Volume 2 (of 3)]_1500_21_0.5 | Bennett, Arnold_[Hilda Lessways]_1500_23_0.8 |
With unwonted energy Coventry was astir seven next morning. Lucia served him breakfast, and as he left to arrange a carriage, Miss Muir gliding down the stairs—pale and heavy‑eyed—slipped a delicate letter into his hand and hurriedly said, “Please deliver this at Lady Sydney's and, if you see her, say ‘I have remembered.’” Her peculiar manner and peculiar message struck him. His eye involuntarily glanced at the address of the letter and read young Sydney's name. Realizing his mistake, he shoved the letter into his pocket, offered a hurried “Good morning,” and left Miss Muir with one hand pressed over her heart and the other outstretched as though trying to pull it back. Even as he made the long journey to London, Coventry found it impossible to shake the almost‑tragic expression on the girl's face, and it haunted him amid the bustle of the next two busy days. Ned’s affair, which was intended to be finished rapidly, was stymied; Bella’s commissions were completed; his mother’s favorite delicacies were arranged for her; and a gift was bought for Lucia—whom the family had earmarked as the woman he was to marry—because he was too lazy to pick one himself. Jean Muir’s letter remained undelivered because Lady Sydney was away in the country and her townhouse was closed. Curious to see how she would receive his tidings, he quietly entered the house upon arrival. “Everyone else had gone out to dress for dinner, except Miss Muir, who was lingering in the garden,” the servant remarked. “Very well, I have a message for her,” he said, and the young master— as they called him—turned and went to find her. In a remote corner he saw her sitting alone, buried in thought. As he stepped toward her, a look of surprise flashed across her face, quickly giving way to satisfaction; she rose and beckoned him with a nearly eager gesture. Astonished, he approached her, handed her the letter, and gently said, “I regret that I could not deliver it.” Lady Sydney is in the country, and I didn’t want to send this without your permission. Did I do right? " " Quite right, thank you very much—it is better so." With a sigh of relief, she shredded the letter into fine fragments and let them drift into the wind. Even more astonished than before, the young man was about to walk away when she, with a blend of pleading and command, urged, “Stay a moment.” I want to speak to you. " He paused, eyes widening with surprise, as a sudden flush reddened her cheeks and her lips quivered. Only for a moment, then she was quite self-possessed again. Motioning him to sit, she stayed on her feet and spoke in a low, urgent tone brimming with pain and resolve: “Mr. Coventry, as the head of the house I’d rather speak to you than to your mother about a most unfortunate affair that has come to pass while you were away.” My month of probation ends today; your mother wishes me to stay, and I sincerely wish the same, because I am happy here, though I ought not. Read this, and you will see why. " She slipped a hastily written note into his hand, watching him intently as he read it. She watched him flush with anger, bite his lip, knit his brows, and then assume his most haughty look as he lifted his eyes and said, in his most sarcastic tone, “Very well for a beginning.” The boy has eloquence. Pity that it should be wasted. May I ask if you have replied to this rhapsody?" " I have. " " And what follows? He begs you to travel with him, share his fortunes, and be the good angel of his life. Of course you consent?" Miss Muir stood tall before him and offered no answer; her gaze was one of proud patience, as if anticipating reproach yet refusing to resent it. Her manner had its effect. Dropping his bitter tone, Coventry asked briefly, "Why do you show me this? What can I do?" " I show this so you can see how earnest the boy truly is, and how openly I wish to be. You can guide, advise, and comfort your brother, and help me see what my duty is. You love him?" demanded Coventry bluntly. " No!" was the quick, decided answer. " Then why make him love you?" " I never tried to do it. "Your sister will testify that I have endeavoured to avoid him just as you have avoided me." She bowed quietly, and he continued, “I say with complete respect that nothing could be more blameless than your conduct toward me; yet why let Ned haunt you day after day?” What can one expect of a romantic boy who seems destined to fall in love with the first attractive woman he meets? A fleeting sparkle flashed in Jean Muir’s steel‑blue eyes as the young man’s last words slipped from his lips, only to vanish instantly; her tone turned reproachful as she said steadily, impulsively, “If the ‘romantic boy’ had been allowed to live the life he longed for, he would have had no time to fall in love with the first sorrowful girl he pitied.” Mr. Coventry, the fault is yours. Refrain from blaming your brother; instead, promptly admit your mistake and rectify it with generosity and speed. For an instant Gerald sat dumb. Since his father died, nobody had ever reproved him, and he had rarely, if ever, been blamed. It was a new experience, and the very novelty added to the effect. He recognized his mistake, lamented it, and admired the girl’s bold sincerity in revealing it to him. Unable to manage the situation, he was forced to admit both his past negligence and his present incapacity. Honorable yet proud, he managed to speak candidly: “You are correct, Miss Muir.” I am to blame, yet as soon as I saw the danger, I tried to avert it. I paid for my town visit from Ned’s funds; soon he will receive his commission, after which he can be sent away from danger. Can I do more?" " No, it is too late to send him away with a free and happy heart. He must bear his pain as best he can, for doing so may help turn him into a man, she said sadly. He'll soon forget," began Coventry, who found the thought of gay Ned suffering an uncomfortable one. " Yes, thank heaven, that is possible, for men. " Miss Muir pressed her hands together, with a dark expression on her half-averted face. Whatever she said—her tone, her manner—struck Coventry, as if an old wound opened and a bitter memory was awakened by the approach of a new lover. He was young, heart-whole, and romantic, under all his cool nonchalance of manner. He was intrigued by this girl—he suspected she loved his friend and was adored by her brother—so she became a focal point of his interest. He felt pity for her, yearned to help her, and regretted the mistrust he’d previously shown—just as a chivalrous man would, when wronging a woman. She was happy here, poor, homeless soul, and she should stay. Bella adored her, and his mother found comfort in her; with Ned gone, no one’s peace would be disturbed by her winning ways or her impressive accomplishments. During a brief pause these thoughts rushed through his mind, and when he finally spoke, he did so gently: “Miss Muir, I thank you for your frankness—surely it was painful—and I will do my best to earn the trust you place in me.” You were both discreet and kind to speak only to me. This thing would have troubled my mother extremely, and have done no good. I shall see Ned, and try and repair my long neglect as promptly as possible. I know you will help me, so please stay—he will soon be gone. She looked at him with tear‑filled eyes, and her voice—warm and sincere—replied softly, “You’re too kind, but I’d better go; it isn’t wise for me to stay.” Why not?" She colored beautifully, hesitated, then spoke out in the clear, steady voice which was her greatest charm, "If I had known there were sons in this family, I never should have come. | The stormy scene had passed so rapidly, been so strange and sudden, Guy's anger so scornful and abrupt, I could not understand it, and felt like a puppet in the grasp of some power I could not resist; but as my lover left the room I broke out of the bewilderment that held me, imploring him to stay and hear me. It was too late – he had vanished, and Sultan’s hasty procession was already tearing down the avenue. I listened until the sound faded, then my hot temper erupted beyond control, and a womanly voice surged in a vehement, voluble tirade, in which I scolded my uncle, my cousin, and myself, laying out a torrent of explanations, reproaches, and regrets—only a passionate girl could proclaim so. I dashed to the door, leaving my uncle where I had abandoned him; he looked bewildered yet resolutely firm, and when I paused for breath he answered simply, “Sybil, you ask me to bring back that head‑strong boy; I cannot—you will never find him.” He found the marriage distasteful, yet he yielded for my sake because I had been unlucky and we were impoverished. Let him depart, let the past be forgotten, and grant me what I seek; I loved your father and will faithfully protect his daughter for the rest of my life. Child, it must be—come, I beg you; I command you. He beckoned imperiously, lifting the glittering bet‑rothal ring as though to tempt me. The tone, the act, and the look threw me entirely off balance. I approached him, took the ring, but, with the same resolve he possessed, declared, “Guy rejects me, and I am finished with love.” Uncle, you have betrayed me, treating me merely as a tool for your own selfish ambitions. I reject both you and your gifts, having now despised you and your commands; with resolute fury I hurled the ring and its case across the room, striking the great mirror and shattering it into fragments that crashed to the floor. Great heavens! is the young lady mad?" exclaimed a voice behind us. They turned, spotting Dr. Karnac—a stealthy, sallow‑faced Spaniard—who evoked in me an unbreakable aversion. He was my uncle’s physician, having been visiting a sick servant in the upper quarters; at that very moment, my unfortunate circumstances summoned him to the door with that lamentable exclamation on his lips. What do you say?" My uncle turned around, eyeing the newcomer intently as he repeated his own words. I was sure I looked like a madwoman—desperately angry, pale, and trembling with excitement—and when they stared at me with alarm, a sudden awareness of the absurdity of the scene seized me. I laughed hysterically for a breath, then burst into tearful remorse, remembering that Guy was gone. While I sobbed, clutching my hands, I sensed the gentlemen whispering about me, but I ignored their murmurs. In my tears, a comforting thought struck: Guy could not have gone far—Sultan had been out all day, and though reckless, he would not harm his beloved horse, which he loved like a person; thus he was surely at a nearby humble friend’s house. If I could slip away unnoticed, I might reverse my disastrous deed and spot him again before he fled, perhaps never to return. That hope granted me courage for whatever lay ahead, and as I wiped away my tears, I took a discreet survey. Dr. Karnac and my uncle remained standing by the fire, deep in their low‑hushed conversation; their backs turned to me. With the rustle of my dress muffled, I slipped silently into the hall, seized Guy’s plaid, and, opening the great door unseen, darted down the avenue. Not far off, the wind buffeted me back and forth, the rain blinded my eyes, the mud clung to my feet and soon stole my slipper; in despair I searched for it, a light flashed in the outer darkness, voices called, and swift footsteps trailed behind me. Like a stung doe fleeing a hunter, I pushed forward—only to have my bare foot catch a sharp stone just a dozen yards from the start, causing me to tumble, half‑stunned, onto the damp roadside grass. Dr. Karnac was the first to reach for me, lifting me as if I were a misbehaving child, and bearing me past a line of gawking servants toward the drawing‑room, with my uncle trailing behind, breathlessly urging me to calm down, his demeanor an unusually frantic bustle. I was deeply ashamed; the shock of the fall left my head throbbing, my foot bleeding, and my heart racing, and as the doctor set me down a panic seized me when my uncle leaned over and asked, “My poor girl, do you know me?” An irresistible impulse drove me to shove him away, tears streaming as I cried, “Yes, I know you, and I hate you—let me go!” Let me go, otherwise it will be too late! Feeling utterly drained by the whirlwind of emotions that had seized me over the last hour, I, for the first time in my life, fainted into the darkness. When I came to myself, I found myself back in my own room, surrounded by my uncle, the doctor, Janet, and Mrs. Best—the housekeeper—who, as she dabbed at my temples, whispered, “She’s a sad sight, poor thing, so young, so bonny, and so unfortunate.” Did you ever see her so before, Janet?" " Bless you, no, ma’am; there were no signs of such a tantrum when I dressed her for dinner. What do they mean? did they never see any one angry before?" I was still shaking from the fading stupor when Dr. Karnac’s deep voice cut through sharply, saying, “If it continues, you are perfectly justified in doing so.” Doing what?" I demanded sharply, the sound rousing and irritating me, that I disliked the man so intensely. “Nothing at all, my dear,” Mrs Best purred, steadying me as I sat up weak‑eyed and dazed, yet determined to find out what had happened. Indeed I was a faded tableau of misery: my soaked hair draped my shoulders, my gown was streaked with mud, one bare foot blushed with blood while the other was splashed and stained, and a pale, wild‑eyed face completed the ruinous reflection in the opposite mirror. Everything looked blurred and strange, and a feverish unrest seized me, for I was not one to subside easily after such a mental storm. Resting my arm against the wall, I surveyed the room and its occupants, striving to maintain every ounce of composure I could muster. The two women looked at me with curious pity, while Dr. Karnac furtively glanced in my direction, listening to my uncle as he briskly spoke in Spanish and pointed to a tiny scar on his hand. That sight restored me more than the cordial I had just been given, so I rose abruptly and declared, “Please, everyone, leave; my head aches, and I wish to be alone.” Mrs. Best began, “Let Janet stay and help you, dear; you’re not fit,” but I peremptorily cut her off. “No, go on your own and take her with you; I’m tired of all this fuss over such trivial matters as a broken glass and a girl in a pet.” You should take this calming draught before I leave, Miss Sybil. “I will do none of that; all I need is solitude and sleep to recover, so I poured the doctor’s offered glass into the fire.” He shrugged his shoulders with an exasperated smile, then quietly began to brew another draught, saying, “You are mistaken, my dear young lady; you need much care and should obey so that your uncle may be spared further apprehension and anxiety.” I lost patience at their presumptuous assertion of authority and resolved to confront them squarely, for everyone seemed to be watching me with rude curiosity. He is not my uncle! He has never been worthy, and he deserves neither my respect nor my obedience. I am the sole arbiter of my own health, and your objections are merely an unnecessary and irritating fuss. This is my house, and you will oblige me by leaving it, Dr. Karnac; this is my room, and I insist on being left in peace immediately. | 0.7 | Man-woman relationships -- Fiction | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May) | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May) | 8677 | 54212 | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May)_[Behind a Mask; or, a Woman's Power]_1500_8_0.5 | Alcott, L. M. (Louisa May)_[A Modern Mephistopheles, and A Whisper in the Dark]_1500_26_0.8 |
Was he to be called upon—yes, perhaps by Mary herself—to abstain from his threatened exposure of the past, and stand from between Eugene and herself?—now, in his hour of triumph, to be merciful, generous and forgiving in this also? For why else did he see her here?—why, if the purport of her letter still held good, that she had bade adieu—cancelled for ever her engagement with her former lover? Why, then, was she here, in the very place where she had first fallen into this dangerous snare? Ah, no!—he saw it all too plainly! Driven by a woman’s mistaken yet generous devotion and her lover’s fallen fortunes, his offences were redeemed in her eyes and his alienated affections rekindled; she came like a ministering angel to reassure, console, and sympathise with him, hoping her intercession would ward off the disgrace and ruin that his injured brother’s ominous arrival might overwhelm him with. But he had no time to dwell on these things. There had been something in his touch, light as it had been, which proved sufficient to break the charm of slumber. Mary slowly unclosed her eyes, and murmuring: "Are you there, Charlie?" looked up and beheld her new companion. One uncertain bewildered gaze she fixed upon his face, then gliding to her feet cried: "Mr. Trevor, are you really come?" and burst into tears. " “Yes, Miss Seaham, I am come,” she replied, her voice trembling with emotion. She took the hands she had offered to him, gently settled herself on the sofa, and sat beside him, her face reflecting earnest sorrow. Yes, I am come, and thank you for this feeling welcome, which is but too much required, for you may well imagine what a coming, one such as mine must be. " " Yes, yes," she murmured through her fast falling tears; "I know, I feel it must be a fearful trial; your father's dreadful death, the melancholy destruction of your home. But—but, Mr. Trevor, it is the hand of the Almighty—His great and terrible hand—we must look upon it as such; and," lifting up her streaming eyes, "hope for His loving-mercies to shine forth once again. There has been much of dark and terrible in the past, but let us pray that the future may atone. Yes, you have returned, and all may still be right. " " You think so," he replied gently, but still most mournfully; then averting his face, added in low and sterner accents of interrogation: "and my brother?" " He has been ill," was Mary's low reply, "suffering, it is to be feared, as much from mental anxiety as from physical pain. Oh, Mr. Trevor, your coming to him indeed must prove a relief—a relief from the worst of sufferings—suspense. " " What has he to fear?" demanded Eustace Trevor. " What? You will learn too soon the desperate nature of your brother's position, unless, indeed, he finds in you one more generous and forgiving than he has any right or reason to expect. " Mary spoke earnestly, but with firmness, almost severity; and as she uttered these last words Eustace Trevor turned and anxiously regarded her. " Eugene need have no fears on any pecuniary account," he again repeated; "he will find in me one who cannot set too low a value on that of which he strove so hard to deprive me. Surely you, Miss Seaham, could not have believed me capable of so poor and contemptible a spirit of revenge, as to entertain any doubt or fear as regards my conduct in that respect?" " No, no," Mary replied, with trembling fervour; "I might have rested well assured as to what must be the high and holy character of your revenge. ' If your enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink;' and oh, Mr. Trevor, by so doing, coals of fire will indeed be heaped upon your unhappy brother's head. But, alas! can he suppose you capable of such magnanimity—he of so different a spirit to your own?" There was a spirit in the mild eyes, a colour on the pale cheek turned towards him, as she thus expressed herself, which caused a corresponding glow to illumine the countenance of her listener, and with still greater earnestness he regarded her. Mary turned away, bending her head over the boy, who had again drawn caressingly to her side, whilst in low, faltering accents she replied to his inquiries, whether she had come to Silverton since the fire? " No, the afternoon before it had occurred. " " Had she seen his brother?" " She had, contrary to her cousin Olivia's promise, that so painful and useless an ordeal should be spared her. She had found him at Silverton on her arrival. It had been an interview most distressing and repugnant to her feelings at the time, though the startling and terrible events, which so closely succeeded, had in a great degree diverted her mind from any selfish consideration. She had since then been very ill. Her illness had detained her at Silverton, but this I shall not regret," she added. " I now depart with the joyous conviction that what has long been wrong is finally right, my mind freed from the burden of doubt, darkness and perplexity. Yes, your sense of disinterested justice may be satisfied; but your heart, will it remain equally so? Having so graciously championed this cause, will other emotions not yet again seize their hold, and will my brother once more gain possession of that which, though I might call it mine, I would gladly lay at his feet as his richest inheritance? These words were uttered with almost breathless agitation. " No," was the reply in a voice so low and trembling that the anxious listener had to hold his breath to catch its accents; "such feelings have long been destroyed, and can never re-assert their influence. Even pity is done away save for the wounded conscience, which he who once I loved must carry with him through life; yes, pity even is now scarcely to be excited; and love—can love survive esteem?" With a jealous, yearning glance, Eustace Trevor watched the tears once again spill from the agitated speaker’s eyes—softly kissed away by the sympathetic child—before rising to pace the room again, as if he were trying to stem a fresh torrent of emotion that raged within his breast. But at this juncture the door opened abruptly, and in another moment Eustace Trevor's hand was clasped in Louis de Burgh's, who, followed by Arthur Seaham, entered the room; and Mary, leaning on her brother's arm, left the re-united friends together. Flesh and blood, You brother mine, that entertained ambition, Expelled remorse and nature, I do forgive thee, Unnatural as thou art— Forgive thy rankest fault. TEMPEST. Arthur Seaham stood at the hall door two days after, looking out for the carriage which was to convey himself and sister from Silverton, some delay having been occasioned by the non-arrival of the post-horses. Suddenly a single horse's hoof was heard approaching, and he had but just time to retreat out of observation, when Eugene Trevor rode up to the door. Arthur Seaham could not but feel shocked at his altered appearance—his haggard countenance, and the strong marks of mental suffering it exhibited. His whole posture was bowed by the sudden weight of care and anxiety that had taken hold of him; after dismounting and ringing the bell, he waited there, clutching the reins, oblivious to any human regard; in that instant a tender affection stirred within the young man's kindly heart as Eugene Trevor stroked the horse’s glossy mane, the noble animal nudging its head against his master’s shoulder and looking up at him with affectionate eyes. The action seemed as expressively as words to say: "Poor fellow! it must go hard indeed with me before I can make up my mind to part with you; in your eye, at least, is none of the suspicion and distrust I plainly perceive in every other." And softened by this touch of nature, and remembering the attachment to his sister—sincere he believed at the time, which like a fair flower amongst noxious plants had shewn his nature to be so capable of better things—a feeling of regret was excited in Arthur Seaham's mind that that "root of all evil," the promoter of "every foolish and hurtful lust—the love of money," should ever have struck its baneful fibres in this man's heart. | During my mother's brief married life with her second husband I was constantly with my aunt, and I believe I should have lived with her wholly but for my determination that my stepfather, the doctor, should not flatter himself he had sickened me out of my own home. At that time Will was attending the Bluecoat School, buried in Latin and Greek, for he had resolved to go to sea. His father truly wanted him to pursue that line of work, and he would say, “What good is a heap of learning that will be cast overboard on the first dirty night across the Channel?” After my mother died, my aunt begged me to stay with her and leave the doctor to his own vain self‑glorification. I replied that I would not consider abandoning my home even if my stepfather left, nor would I be expelled simply because he chose to stay. I had the authority to turn him out, but I chose not to because of the baby. The child belonged to my mother, and I could not have forced her son out of the house that had been hers. Thus, I remained in the home I had inherited from my father. I lived in a set of rooms above the parlour floor and ate in my own apartments, where a maid attended solely to me. The child was named after my mother, and I called him Marian. If I happened to see the little child in his nurse’s arms while going up or down the stairs, I would take him, kiss him, perhaps toss him a moment or two, and then continue on my way. God forgive me—I could never bring myself to love that child. I could never regard it as my mother's; it was always Mr Stanford's. The sight and sound of it would stir all my feelings for my father in my heart, and I would fall into a kind of passion merely by thinking that the memory of such a man should have been betrayed. I dare say you will view all this as an excess of loyalty on my part. My devotion to those I loved could even be said to border on exaggeration. I’m not boasting—I simply mean that the story to follow will prove it. After my mother’s death, the money paid to me through my trustees increased to an annual income of nearly five hundred pounds. It brings me great satisfaction to declare that Mr. Stanford received not a single penny. My mother had had no power to dispose of even a farthing of what my father had left her. Otherwise, I have no doubt that the doctor would have taken from me something more substantial than a ten‑month memory, and that my sullen toleration of his presence at the door was likewise unwarranted. In those days a five‑hundred‑pound annual income corresponded to about seven hundred pounds today, so I was a very prosperous, well‑built, strikingly attractive young woman—and of course you might naturally ask whether I had ever had sweethearts, lovers, or suitable mates. To be honest, I never entertained the idea of men or marriage. I had friends in the neighbourhood and spent time with them; I also spent much of my time at my aunt’s, and it was hard for any gentleman to catch me at home looking to court a fine, independent girl. Alongside my visits, I had a great love of solitary rambling. I’d board a boat at Wapping, spend almost a full day on the river, alight at a convenient landing to eat, and then return to the wherry. Ah, those were delicious jaunts! They linger in my memory as sweet and joyous as the moments when my father carried me. I paid no heed to my solitude, and no one bothered to notice me. I was affronted only once, by a waterman from Wapping who claimed I had promised to use his boat—a claim that was false. He was a poor creature, and only the modesty of my gender kept me from striking him with the short, stout stick—silver-headed with a lead core—that I always carried when I went out alone. Another waterman I had hired came over while the previous one was belittling me; he snapped his coat like lightning and, in five minutes, had gouged out both of his rival’s eyes. That was punishment enough, and I was satisfied; as a reward, I paid the chivalrous man double the fare and made a point of hiring his boat afterwards. I might also take a Calais steamer to Gravesend—or even farther—and then wander about, entirely content to be on my own, eyes and thoughts set on the country’s beauty and the bright scenes along the river. Typically I would be away for two or three days at a stretch, but on those occasions I always selected an inn where I was known, where I could rely on comfortable lodging and secure surroundings; where the landlady would greet me as a friend and supply me with the few conveniences I had left behind at home. Everything was caprice with me in those days. I pursued my desires, traversed wherever I pleased, and remained free from any authority. My aunt, once or twice, gently questioned the propriety of a young woman behaving as I did, but my uncle defended me, pointing out that my blood ran full of my father’s wandering instincts; he insisted I was more than old enough and strong enough to care for myself, that my enjoyment was my right, and that I was entitled to be happy. He said, “Stay aloft while you can.” On some days a large fellow—he called himself “husband”—would appear with a pair of shears in his hand, while the rest of the days were spent in brief hops around the farmyard. However, my stepfather claimed to be scandalised by my conduct. He stormed into my bedroom that very day—after a solitary night at Gravesend—and asked permission to speak with me earnestly. When he started telling me that I wasn’t behaving with the decorum and social observances expected of a young woman, I walked out of the room. He then addressed a long letter to me. He remained preoccupied with decorum and social observances, and wondered how his patients would perceive him. I thought of my father and how he would respond to this fellow—one who had dared to instruct me in my conduct— and, in a fit of passion, I tore the letter in half, slipped the pieces into an envelope, wrote, “Your advice is as objectionable as your company,” and instructed my maid to place the letter on the table in the room where he received his patients. I’m not going to say whether I had lovers, sweethearts, followers, or none at all. I cannot indulge in that here, but let me name two young gentlemen. The first was Captain Galloway, son of one of my trustees, who lived in Shadwell. The youth was handsome, with a pleasant and easy manner; he had received a good education and was, at that time, holding a modest post in the London Docks. He spent a great deal of time with me, arranging to meet me at friends’ houses and often calling, and sometimes succeeded in discovering where I’d been roaming, catching me by chance. I was sure that a considerable share of the young man’s attentiveness sprang from Captain Galloway’s fatherly counsel. I laughed quietly at the poor boy, even though I had always treated him with gentleness and kindness; yet I never offered him any real encouragement, and for his father’s sake I made sure never to cause him pain or any discomposure. One evening, at a quadrille party he had been invited to but did not attend, a pretty, sad‑faced young woman was pointed out to me—she was the girl Jim Galloway had so badly broken up with, a provocation that had earned him a caning at the hands of her brother. This was enough for me. | 0.3 | Young women -- Fiction | Gray, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline) | Russell, W. Clark (William Clark) | 40407 | 63964 | Gray, Mrs. (Elizabeth Caroline)_[Mary Seaham: A Novel. Volume 3 of 3]_1500_35_0.1 | Russell, W. Clark (William Clark)_[The Convict Ship, Volume 1 (of 3)]_1500_4_0.9 |
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